


Under The California Sun (impalas and big trucks)

by roxymissrose



Series: Lodi series [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Angst, M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-23
Updated: 2011-05-23
Packaged: 2017-10-19 17:53:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/203581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roxymissrose/pseuds/roxymissrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Lodi, Dean's on his own....</p><p>originally posted 8-26-2011</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under The California Sun (impalas and big trucks)

Under The California Sun (impalas and big trucks)

1

  
The stupid door bounces against the frame when he tries to open it, it rebounds and smacks him in the arm and hurts like a motherfucker.

"Shit, shit shit—" He's almost crawling across the floor, he kicks the door shut with one booted foot and when he wakes up again, he's lying face down on the bathroom floor. Which—good—because--

He vomits his fucking lungs into the toilet, and hangs off the edge, feeling his face suck up all the cool from the porcelain. "God…" What the fuck.

He draws himself up, panting, fumbling around the sink. The kit's up there somewhere. He pulls himself off his knees, just about rips the crappy little sink off the wall before he's completely upright and a wave of funk flows off of him—gags him. Jesus—he stinks. And he's crusty, and covered with a mix of blood, his and the bitch's. He's shaking by the time he gets his leather jacket off, his boots, the funky, sticky mess of his tee shirt and the ribbons of what used to be a pretty good pair of jeans. It says a lot about this dump that the rest of the tenants didn't turn a hair when he staggered down the hall, pretty much naked from the waist down, dripping blood and mud and fabric. He stifles a hysterical giggle, gasps when it turns to sharp-edged pain.

He looks over the leather with a critical eye—there's a small puncture on the shoulder where the harpy tried to grab him but missed, her talons only popping the leather and thank fuck, not his skin. Should have been so lucky elsewhere.

He starts the shower and stands under hot water, yelping and hissing and cursing when the hot water scalds open wounds but he knows just how damn dirty those things are, rotted meat on those claws, in their teeth. He fingers a puncture wound in his thigh, and thanks…God, that it didn't hit the artery, or fuck—his nuts. He turns so the water runs right into it, no matter how much it hurts. That's why God made curse words and he uses a lot of them, at the top of his lungs. There's a slice too, across his stomach, that only sheer, dumb, stupid luck had kept from being the wound his guts poured out of. Shit. That realization, and the hot water, makes him feel faint, makes the slashes bleed faster.

His head is swooping, heart hammering by the time he shuts the water off and stumbles into the bedroom with the kit. He sits on the edge of the bed and threads the needle, takes a deep breath, "Okay, okay…" and begins to stitch himself up. There's no one to look brave for, so he whimpers and whines a lot—even lets a tear or two roll down his cheeks—it makes him feel a little better. "Get you a milkshake later—promise…" pain zips through his nerves and he groans, "fucking get you laid later, promise…"

A splash of alcohol on the wounds wakes him right up for a minute of two….

This would be so much goddamn easier with a partner, he thinks, and not for the first time. He sounds like he's yelping instead of breathing by the time he's completely done. His head's pounding and his lip hurts from biting down. "Fuck, that was rough."

Makes sure salt's laid in straight and unbroken lines across the doorway, along the sill of the one window in the room and finally, gratefully, takes a painkiller. Two. He hitches up on the bed, until his shoulders are pressed against the headboard, and fingers his hair, and the ridiculous thought that if he fell asleep with it wet and uncombed it'd be a rat's nest in the morning makes him laugh. "Yo, you asshole," he snickers. "You coulda died tonight—you're fucking worrying about snarls? Shit." His head rolls and his eyelids flicker. "You're such a stupid fuck," he mutters. "No wonder you're alone...."

His eyelids drop shut, and stuttering images of a screaming rage-filled face swoops at him, the sword he used to take its head off twists in his dream hands and falls—blood slaps against his face again and the stink of it makes him gag again—he jerks upright, eyes wide before he slumps and laughs weakly. It's okay….

He's as safe as possible now. In the morning he'll add what he's learned about harpies into the journal, and let his contact know it was done. Right now, *real* sleep. Morning, he'd have breakfast, and call Alex and find another job and call Alex and….

He's deep asleep. snoring, dreaming, running and running in his sleep, there was something bad chasing him, something with--yellow eyes, no—black—red--

"Sam—help Sam--"

Shoots up straight in bed, with an invisible hand pressing down on his chest, and in his throat—

"Shit…" He *hates* when he wakes up with Sam on his mind. All this time, and still. He shakes his head, knuckles his eyes and yawns—winces when the abuse he took yesterday catches up with him. Sam. He always dreams of him when he's so beaten down, all his defenses are toilet paper thin.

Fucking Sam. He wouldn't even be in Cali, if it wasn't….He shifts on the bed and groans. "Oh man..." He's only got the room for tonight but…there's no way he was hustling, not this beat up. He's going to have to call in some favors if he wants to eat—and fuck if he was gonna sleep in that stupid matchbox of a car in this condition. He gingerly, carefully dresses, pulls the leather jacket on and heads out. Something would turn up, it always did.

He winds up in an alley behind some grungy bar anyway, beat up or not—in fact the piece of work who's willing to pay sixty for a blow job seems to like pressing his fingers into the bruises. Every time he pulls off to hiss, the fucker's dick jumps in his mouth. He finishes him off as fast as he can, acting like he can't get enough of the guy's mini dick.

When he's folding money into his pocket he let himself think about Alex. Maybe…maybe he should call him. Just to check in, that's all.

He wanders back inside, and drops down at the end of the bar. He pulls the phone out of his pocket, punches in the number quickly. He leaves a message. "Yeah, it's me. I'm back in the land of sunshine. You too busy to meet me for breakfast? Oh, um…this is...it's Patrick. Call me? If you want."  


2

  
Dean feels a little like he's filled with rice crispies and they're sliding in between his joints as he moves. Grimaces, wants a coffee…a shot, definitely a fucking cigarette but not in the car. It's hot as fuck. He rubs grit into his eyes, blinks hard. How fucking long is it going to take before his contact shows up?

He shifts on the seat, his jeans so wet from sweat it's like he peed himself or something…he glances at his phone. Nothing. He idly thinks about swinging by to check out Sam—long distance of course. He's not a fuckin' masochist. Not into having Sammy spit at him and tell him to fuck off. Besides, he's got some girl—Jess, or something--keeping him busy now. Dean shifts again, and tries to shift himself internally. Sam's *supposed* to have a girl, supposed to be loving school, getting laid, building a life for himself—that's what guys his age are supposed to want—it's normal. Dean experiments with a smile. Yeah. There's movement up the block and Dean's instantly awake—aware. Watches the person separate from the shadows across the street and come closer. It's a guy—a little older than him, with an impressive tattoo of scars scattered down one cheek, digging into his neck. There's a lighter landscape of scars, shiny but flat, spreading up into his hairline, altering and stealing big patches of skin out of where hair should be. He makes a beeline to the car—not worried about being seen. Good.

The guy is tapping at the open window with a twisted grin and Dean mutters, just because it's good policy, "Christo"—the dude laughs.

"Winchesters. Ya'll are funny as shit. Here's what you need. Bobby says hey."

Dean tips his head. "Thanks—we square, or—"

"Bobby got it. See ya 'round. I'm heading out Midwest. Lots of activity out there."  
"I heard. Take care."

The guy licks powder dry lips. "Oh yeah. I'm gonna take care of something 'fore I leave."

Dean snorts and waves. _freakin' creep._ He puts the car in drive, drops the package in a box, a warded box. He's got no idea why Dad needs this stuff, but he needs it so Dean got it. Besides, this way he can check on the boy and him and Dad can both act like it's just…coincidence.

He's driving down the weird, hugely open street, baking under the glare of the sun, smells and music mostly new to him come floating in through the open windows. Ah, sunshine! Time for food, some booze, and a little tail before he checks on Sam, and takes off to catch up with Dad.

He's motoring along, watching people and looking for the kind of corner bar that's open at lunchtime and serves sandwiches.  
Bingo. The joint's got a dubious paint job, the skeletal remains of an awning hanging over the step up inside, and bars on every window plus the door, but it looks like the kind of place that a stranger with money and an appetite can go unnoticed.  
Inside, the place is cool and noisy in a good way—pool tables off to the side and against the back wall. Lighting the gloom were a couple of old-fashioned pinball machines, and Dean's eyes light up. He heads straight back, and fishes the laundry money out of his pocket. Pinball reminded him of Sam, and he was getting over avoiding everything that had to do with his brother. This was kind of…therapy. Yeah.

An hour or so later, his wrists are a little sore but he feels great. He sucks up another free beer—the generous gift of the little crew hanging around, watching him stack points. There's a butt tucked behind his ear, and the end of one on his lip. He narrows his eyes against the smoke as he inhales. "Hell yeah," he crows as the ball ricochets down the table, racking up points—the machine's blinking and trumpeting, and he's getting his back slapped, and a girl sitting at a table opposite the pinball machines smiles, leans forward so her top opens, and licks her pussy pink lips. Dean feels a little tightness low in his gut. It's been a while and she's not bad. Just the way he likes them. Tall, green eyes and a fall of dark, dark, hair down her back.

He's about ask her what she's drinking when a kind of familiar figure struts past, his arm gripped up by some guy who's a dead ringer for Quasimodo. Dean shakes his head, about to let it go, when he hears the tall guy--Sammy tall--laugh. It's kind of high and fucked up sounding and it shoots a chill up his spine, gives him the weirdest sense of déjà vu. He could swear, for a hot minute, that he _knows_ that guy.

He watches the two walk out, sucks a deep drag off his cigarette. He orders a beer and pays for it on his own, sits at the bar. Game's on, so he sits and sips, fishes peanuts out a bowl and chews them down whiles he eyes the chick, who eyes him back with a sly grin. He's thinking about it. Car, or the alley, or hell, maybe her place…and just then, the long haired freakishly tall guy comes back, alone, and sits at the far end of the bar. Orders whiskey neat. He's licking at the inside of his red, red lips…Dean grimaces. Fuck…no doubt what that guy was doing. And on second glance, this can't be the guy he thought it was. This guy's got fresh bruises, he's holding himself like he's got broken ribs, or maybe took some serious hits. There's a gnarled thick scar peeking out of his shirt collar, running up under his chin. Whatever freaky shit this guy's into, it's obvious he's a fighter—at least, no stranger to getting his ass kicked, and from the size of him, kicking back—hard.  
_Nah. Can't be._ Maybe some fucked up part of his brain wants it to be. And he flushes, feels the heat sweep his face. Maybe, he's afraid it's him. He slaps his glass down on the bar top, and signals to the chick, and no stranger to this, she's headed towards him before the bills he drops land on the bar.

She rides him in the back of the Impala. She's hot, and it's good—hell, any sex is good. She's got great tits, and he spends time on them, rosy nipples she likes having him play with, he bites a bit and gets a moan of approval—bites down hard and she clamps around him, tight and wet—fuck, yeah.

He takes that as permission and lifts her up and slams her down on his dick—wet flesh slaps together and in the quiet of the car, it sounds nasty--obscene. He fucks into her as hard as he can and she only moans, thank god, she doesn't talk—he kind of hates that. Throws him off. His mouth, his eyes, are squeezed tight with the effort, and his arms flex and shift and her knees dig into him. She's panting now, so he reaches between them, finds her clit and rolls it between his fingers, and she's off—snaps her head back and yelps, "shit" and comes in long waves…he grinds into her and his own orgasm snaps through him, he shudders and fills the condom.

The minute he comes down, he wants her out…but he smiles and kisses her and pets her, until she's ready to go…he's so fucking relieved when she does. Offers to drive her home, but no—her car's in the lot, thanks. Walks her to it, though. Least he can do.

She hops in and smiles at him, winks, and he winks back. Grins and waves as she drives off. Thank fuck, she's finally gone--like dodging a fucking bullet, he thinks. The inside of the Impala stinks of sex, and he lights a cigarette and rolls the windows down, because he hates the smell of smoke in his baby.

He rolls a couple of blocks up the street and he spies a motel that looks like it was designed by Walt Disney's crackhead cousin or something. It's got kind of a sixties look, apricot tinted stucco walls looming over a sad looking swimming pool.

He drags his bag into the lobby and stops dead when the smell hits him. "Holy shit," he mutters and wrinkles his nose. "This must be where cabbage comes to die." Dean's pretty sure it's okay to talk to yourself here. He has the feeling it's most of the tenants only way of communication. He knows his gun's visible when he goes to pay the guy…the dude doesn't even look.

 _Thanks Dad. Some place you sent me too. Probably safe, though—no self-respecting monster would hang out here_. He swings the key into his palm and walks across the lobby floor. He can actually feel the soles of his boots trying to pull loose from it as he walks. He glances to the side and there's an old dude staring at him like he's pulled pork on a bun…Dean shivers. Get in the damn room, sleep, and get the fuck out of Dodge….  


3

  
_"Dean, hang on there a few more days, son. I'm pretty sure it's a nest of harpies--"_

"Harpies? A nest? How is that possible? It's like--all built up around here. They don’t hang out in the suburbs…unless they're living off all those fat Paris Hilton dogs--"

_"What--? No, you know what, never mind. Just—do what I ask."_

"Sorry, sir." Dean apologizes automatically, not really feeling remorse, but since Sammy left, it's like their roles are chiseled in stone. Dean kind of needs it that way. Not that he was falling apart without Sam. That would be stupid. It was just…he was used to someone needing him. Dad doesn't need him quite the same way, still it's better than nothing….

Dean's mind is slogging through the stew of odd conflicting emotions that thinking about Sam always sinks him in.

That fucker better be happy, Sam and his Jess, whoever the hell she was, that's all Dean had to say about it.  


~~~~~~

  
Dean's sitting on a bench back in the shadows of a bunch of huge pine trees. Everyone looks so fucking healthy and tan, so it makes him feel better seeing some faces that are obviously strained to the breaking point. Good. Fucking pansy-ass college boys driving around in cars their parents gave them, getting fucked up on Daddy's dime—  
"Oo-kaay…" He rolls eyes at himself. Knows he's just being a dick now. Probably plenty of them sweating for it just like Sam….

He feels an itch between his shoulder blades and looks off to his left, and. And there he is, walking with--hunh--a hell of a good looking girl. He wonders if this is 'Jess'. Pastor Jim'd said that last time he'd spoken to Sam, the boy mentioned a Jess. Of course. Knew the kid had just been going through some sort of freaky phase. That whole fucking summer was a freakin' mess…not that he remembered all that much about it.

Sam bends over the girl and hugs her. She leans back in his arms and giggles. They're both smiling like happy assholes. Dean huffs. Well…Sam does look good. He looks—shit, he looks giant. He's grown some. Still skinny as hell. Dean frowns and examines Sam through the Corporal's eyes. Dean can see that Sam's not been training. Kid should know better than that.

Sam is talking to the girl, he gathers up her hair, thick waves of dark brown, and holds it in a ponytail for her. She laughs and bats at his hand. Dean feels a sharp pain in his chest, rubs it away. Serves him right for eating suspect food off a cart.

There's a tickle of unease worming up his spine…he looks around and slips off the bench. It feels better to move deeper into the shadows. Meanwhile, Sam's hefted the girl's bag, grabs her hand and they head off to a covered walkway. Dean gets glimpses of Sam as they pass archways, he flashes in and out of the sun's light and Dean relaxes. Sam…Sam really does look happy. Good. When he's out of state, he'll give Sam a call, or leave a message on his phone.

Sam comes to a stop in one of the archways--his head turns from side to side, his body language radiates tension. A flutter in Dean's chest makes it hard to breathe for a moment.

Shit. Dean knows Sam can't possibly see him but it *feels* like Sam's looking right at him. The boy steps through the archway and Dean wheels around and strolls casually away. He's not really worried that Sam will recognize him, not from that distance, and certainly not khaki sporting, robin's-egg blue polo shirt wearing Dean.

Dean gets hit on twice before he's off campus. Assholes.  


~~~~~~

  
"He looks good, Dad. Looks like he does have a girlfriend. She's about big as a minute—they look hysterical together." He grins at Dad's sharp snort of laughter. "She's pretty though, real pretty," Dean says and feels that sharp spike again. He better not be coming down with something.

 _"Yeah. Well, make sure you send him the money, Dean. If I know Sam, he's not getting enough to eat."_ There's a long silence that Dean knows is full of the man's self-recrimination. _"Okay. I'll be in touch. Take it easy until I get there—trying to make it as fast as I can. And Dean. Stay out of trouble."_

"Sir? Trouble…?" Dean says in a voice dripping with offended innocence. Dad snorts again and hangs up.

Trouble, Dean smiles…might have to revisit that bar.

It doesn't quite work out like that.  


~~~~~~

  
Patrick stares at the yuppie looking guy walking purposefully away from the trees, double takes when he nails the ID…hunh.

So, he was right. Fucking Dean Winchester, he thinks. The guy who made him realize that he was gay…one of the brothers who trampled his heart.

He smiles a little. It's funny really, what were the odds that on one of his few and fucking far between visits here, Dean would show up too. He glances over at Sam and wonders, with just a thin edge of bitterness, who the girl is. Looks like he and Dean were right…little Sammy must have been going through a phase. Patrick doesn’t let his thoughts linger too long on Dean either. He glances over and huffs in irritation tinged amusement.

Dean hiding in the shadows was about as inconspicuous as a stripper in church. No doubt he's here for the same reason Patrick is: spying on Sam. Looking out for him...

He sees Dean backpedal deeper into the shadows, and turn about to walk away. Patrick snorts, and walks off himself, not checking to see what direction Dean is headed in—doesn't matter. He doesn’t want to talk to either Winchester. Sam…well, Sam just needs someone to keep an eye on him from time to time. Patrick sighs—yeah. The boy looked happy, he thinks. Sweet, just like he did at fourteen. Giant now, Patrick thinks, but probably still a sweetheart like he'd been back then…well, when he wasn't being kinda bitchy, and remembering makes him smile.

He's out from under the trees, and trotting towards where he'd left his car. In the bright sun, the little bit of activity makes him sweat right away. Patrick sweeps his hair off his face and frowns. He peels long strands off his cheek, his lip, and wipes his forehead. Done here so—it was back to the hotel, and then on the road again. He's got no reason to stay now the job's done.  


4

  
Patrick drags himself out of the fucking piece of crap that's supposed to be a car—he blows out an exasperated breath. He really needed to stop hating on that car. Mark did try to help and it wasn't his fault they weren't millionaires. This job didn’t exactly come with a paycheck. It required a strong back, good aim, and the willingness to do anything to survive. And not think too deeply about what that took. But get rich—or even break even? Was never going to happen.

"God…." He needs a break, he thinks, it's time for a little vacation. Dead things were piling up in his wake and fuck, he deserved some time off.

He takes a heart-pounding moment to concentrate on manhandling the piece of shit into a parking space as close to the hotel entrance as he can get. He terrorizes it into hunkering down in a space before releasing the breath he hadn't known he was holding. Good thing he's not a fuckin' spy, what with the damn engine alerting the whole joint he's coming…though the smoke screen he's throwing up is probably hiding him from view….

Maybe he'd head back to the Post House tonight, catch up on the group he thinks of as his. See if Alex had a job lined up for him, hand the intel he's managed to collect on the last couple of jobs over to Mark and— _oh, hell no. No._

"Mother fu--?" Patrick stops, mouth open and a big wedge of horror cracking open his chest. _Seriously?_ "Really, God?"

Crouching under the sun, gleaming like a polished skull, sits a big ass black Impala. Right there in the parking lot, big as day, and Patrick could swear it was staring right at him, the chrome of its grill a long gleaming sneer. The cars parked next to it were cringing away. Really.

God sure does have a funny sense of humor, Patrick muses, if by funny you mean fucked up. He sighs, and drags his work bag out from under the passenger seat of the last running Gremlin in the known universe, and accidentally knocks the small bag of take-out onto the floor. The lid on his coke pops, and the cup empties into the threadbare carpet.

Wonderful.

His life has just taken a turn for the worse, he's thinking. His shake at least is untouched. Grateful for small favors….

Besides, it was worth it to see Sam. Sam had looked happy. Girlfriend. He shakes his head and wonders if Dean saw her, what he thinks about the girl.  


~~~~~~

  
Patrick's sitting cross-legged on the bed, his hamburger and the shake he'd promised himself sitting on a notebook doing duty as a tray. It was a decent burger, and a pretty good shake that he's not enjoying at all because he's thinking about Sam, the way that he hardly ever does anymore. Of course he's lying to himself. Every time he goes out on a job, he says a prayer, with the rosary he carries on him all the time wrapped around his knuckles and kisses a picture—one he carries all the time—of Sam. One quick kiss. Not even a kiss, just a peck--barely that even. Really. It's habit. A goofy, pointless superstition, the way some of the guys carry a rabbit's foot, or some other weird junk, like a shiny rock, or old coin, or whatever nutty thing in addition to the *real* stuff, that makes them feel safe.

Patrick's perfectly aware of the irony, that the thing he thinks keeps him safe, is a picture of the guy who catapulted him into this job that promised short-term employment and no doubt a sudden and violent retirement. He sucks shake up through the straw and idly gazes at girls showing their tits in a PG way on the TV….

Benefits sucked, too. Maybe…he should take Alex up on his offer to share a place. And thinking about actually having a place to…to stop in, to be safe in, even for a bit, brought up memories of a home he'd thought he'd had, a brief stop on the way to whatever the fuck his life was headed to now.

"Shit…" He sets the wrapper and empty cup aside, and closes his eyes, watching a much, much better movie on the inside of his eyelids….

_"Sam…"_

_Sam smiling, hair dripping, his hands sweeping dark wet hair back from his forehead…arching and pressing the curve of his cock against translucent boxers. The rain is pouring down, pressing overlong beige grass to the ground and swirling pools of chocolate brown mud out of the dry earth. He's holding out his arms and Patrick feels his eyes fill, he's so happy right now, this is—this is a miracle. Sam wants him back, hell; that Sam wants him at all is amazing. He's so hard himself right now, just taking in the incredible sight in front of him is making him hard, so much he can barely breathe, barely take in air…._

_Sam's on his knees, hands on Patrick's thighs. His chin rakes the sensitive length jerking against him, his mouth works over the throbbing tip of Patrick's erection, caught up in the wet folds of his boxers. Sam latches on to the tip, and sucks hard, drawing pre-come through the soaking material._

_"Oh, holy fuck, Sam, yeah—" Patrick looks down, widens his eyes to see everything, remember everything and Sam looks up and says, "I love you so much."_

_"Oh, *god damn it*, no," Patrick curses, "No no. I do *not* want to be dreaming now."_

_Sam smiles gently. Confused, he asks, "What?"_

And Pat wakes up with a raging hard-on and wet eyes. It's a fucked up combination, being that hard and that ready to cry. It sucks. He hates his brain.  


~~~~~~

  
_"Oh, fuck, oh shit—" Sam throws his head back, and drives in, slow and steady, feeling every bit of the hot, velvet, not quite wet enough but so perfect grip his dick's in. Feels like…magic, like something miraculous is growing around them._

_"More, Sammy, more." He looks down at Dean, whose expression is beyond pleasure. He radiates pure bliss, his eyes are emerald green and lit from inside and his skin is pink and glows like diamonds and his mouth is red, wet and juicy red. Sam sinks lower, goes in deeper and licks at Dean's mouth, makes Dean open and let him in. He feels orgasm crawling hot and heavy up his spine, gripping him, climbing one bone after the other. It's growing wider and wider, filling every empty corner of him until he's full, over-full, and leaves him in a blistering fury, burning him on its way, boiling out of him in ecstasy. Dean matches him cry for cry and silky, thick heat splashes between them, joining them again…._

_Sheets pulled taut again, pillows rescued from the floor and propping up his head, Sam watches Dean leaning against the headboard, Dean watches silver grey smoke wander towards the ceiling as he exhales. By the time he stubs the butt out, he's blank-faced and distant and says, "You know we can never do this again."_

_Ice explodes, all sharp-edged and cold inside him. "No, no, it's okay, it really is," he stutters frantically. "Dad's nowhere around and no one else knows, we can, you know…"_

_Sam blushes. Dean looks at him like he wants to vomit._

_"Jesus," he mutters, climbing out of bed and pulling on jeans he fishes off the carpet. "You're sick, Sam. Sick. Admit it to yourself. Don’t you see? This is why I have got to leave. Tonight." He grabs a bag from somewhere and starts to pack. "God, I can't wait to get away from you. You're absolutely disgusting."_

_He's at the door, wearing Dad's leather jacket and a sneer. "So long, asshole." And he walks out the door._

_"No! Don’t, Dean, don't, don’t do this to me—"_

 

"Sam, sweetheart, wake up! Sammy, wake up, please—"

Sam wakes up and meets blue eyes instead of green and jerks away. Hurt washes through the blue, and he feels like…an asshole. "Jess…Jess." He closes his eyes, reaches up to cradle Jess' head, runs his fingers through soft blonde curls, not short brown spikes, and tries not to wince. It…takes a minute or two to regroup whenever he has a dream like this.

"Honey…you were yelling for 'Dean' to leave you alone? Who's Dean—"

"I—there's no Dean. It was just a nightmare. Sorry I woke you…come back to bed?"

I don't know, tall dark and handsome…can you make it worth my while?" Jess grins and bounces onto the bed. "Hah! Are you kidding? You don’t have to ask me twice—" and says in a loud, goofy stage whisper, "just don't tell my boyfriend."

Sam smiles and pulls Jess up into his arms. He wants to be completely, stupidly in love, and he is, he really is--or close enough to it. Close enough that it doesn't matter.  


~~~~~~

  
_It's dark, and then it's not._ Dean rolls to his side, snorts and wakes. Gets up to pee.  


5

  
There's noise out in the hallway, and the paper thin walls aren't doing a damn thing to muffle it, and it's really fucking annoying when a guy is trying to do a little research…or nap. Dean hangs his head out the door, and there's Pulled Pork guy, banging on a door at the end of the hallway.

"Hey buddy," Dean yells out. "Knock it the fuck off, some of us are trying to sleep!"

P.P. Guy stares at him like he's the one who's done something socially unacceptable. Dean's apparently violated some law of the hotel he's unaware of. Another door opens.

"Yo, *everybody* just shut the hell up out here—oh, crap."

Dean stares at his nightmare come to life, if he had any of his nightmares which he doesn't but still…this is not good. Not good at all.

"…Dean."

Dean steps back into his room and starts to shut the door—stops when he realizes how supremely dickish that is. He opens it slowly, hates that he can feel the flush ride right down his cheeks to his neck. "Ah, Patrick, right? I…hi. What are you, um." _Oh god…fucking awkward, much?_ Figures. Patrick must be working out of this hotel. Hopes like hell for Pat's sake, Pulled Pork isn’t a client because Pork is crazy and smells like a zombie.

"I'm on a job." Patrick says, eyebrows lifting like he's trying to communicate something that Dean knows all about, and that's not the fucking case because he's never given head for money. Not really. Much. Not like Patrick. He tries to seize the high moral ground—gives it up. Yeah, not really able to go there.

Patrick meanwhile, is staring at him all narrow-eyed, like he's part snake. Dean expects him to hiss any moment…he's getting that Patrick picked up something he didn't like in Dean's expression. He's pretty sensitive for a guy who fucks strangers for dough, Dean thinks.

"And by job," Patrick says all icy like and draws himself up to his full height, "I mean the kind of job you're on. I assume." Dean stares…he's forgotten that old Pat could be as prissy as Sam sometimes. It makes him smile unwillingly. Patrick narrows his eyes so much Dean figures the guy can’t possibly see, and then…a wobbly little smile twists his lips upward and there he is, that broken, scared, but trying hard to be brave, boy…Dean feels part of the lumpy knot in his chest loosen a little, unwrap from a bigger hurt. "Well, you wanna join me, have a drink? Just a drink," he says hastily, so Patrick knows that it's not business.

Patrick locks his door and saunters up the hallway towards his room. Dean's interested to see that Pork practically breaks his neck plastering himself against the dingy wallpaper, trying to get out of Pat's way. Not a client than. Thank God. Pork is seriously creepy as fuck.

Patrick walks into the room like he expects the ceiling to fall, and then…there he is. Big green eyes, and a fall of long dark hair, nothing's changed. Unexpectedly, Dean's fingers twitch, wanting to touch….

He wipes his fingers on his thigh. It creeps him out, that impulse, but he's had worse desires he's wrestled to death, much worse. "Well, Pat…how are you, Pat? How've you been—why the fuck did you walk out on us?" Dean is shocked at what just fell out of his mouth. He feels stupid, and uncomfortable.

Pat gulps like a fish. "I. I didn't—I had to leave. You guys. You—"

Dean stands up and gives Patrick his back. He digs through his duffle, muttering "I think I got some JB in here, hold up. Yeah, here it is. Got it a few states ago, me and Dad. Job went down just like we planned, it was fuckin' smooth as hell so we—" Dean tilts the bottle, inspects the level and the single forty watt overhead makes the liquid glow gold, "--this okay with you? Straight? Got no ice, naturally, this fucking dump, but really, I'd fuckin' be afraid to put ice from this place in my mouth, it's like the fucking bubonic plague waitin' to hap—" Dean stops and blushes, feels the flush ride his neck like he was seventeen instead of twenty-two.

Pat's wearing a wry smile. He takes the proffered bottle and swirls it a little. "Glasses?"

"Wait," Dean says, and heads for bathroom. "So." He holds out a plastic cup and a paper coffee cup. "Here." Hands Pat one. Pours him a drink and smiles so that his teeth show.

"Drink up." He gulps the JB and it burns going past the knot in his throat.  


~~~~~~

  
Patrick can't help staring at Dean. He's smiling, and it almost makes Patrick forget about everything, everyone. Almost. He listens to Dean ramble on and on can’t get over how *much* Dean talks, the way he talks. It's…weird.

He remembers the quiet, thoughtful, dangerous guy he left back in Lodi. This guy…he smiles a lot--too much. He talks a lot, like he's not thinking...he sounds like a cross between a mobster and a teenager. Patrick's confused by this odd new person, not sure he likes this guy all that much, and that disappoints him. He'd always had these goofy fantasies that they'd meet, and after he magnanimously forgave them, it'd be like old times--*him*—he meant him.

And then Dean sits on the bed, takes a sip from his cup, rolls the liquor in his mouth and swallows, eyes on Patrick as he does…it's still there, coiled in his eyes. The smile doesn't reach his eyes at all. The killer's in there, he just covers it better now. Pat watches him drink and listens to him talk and clown, thinks now that Dean doesn't have Sam to focus on, he fills up the air, all the extra space around him, with talk. Dean says something harsh and laughs, and Pat shudders a little.

He misses his silent, scary killer. This Mr. Howyadoin' Bozo…he's not much to his taste.

"Bozo? Really?" Dean smiles in a way that makes Patrick still and become very aware of the Sig tucked in the back of his pants. What the fuck—he must have drank more than he thought--he said that out loud?

Dean cocks his head, drawls,"Bozo, hunh? Whadya think Pat, 'sat better than bein' you? Bein' a whore?"  
"Who--you think I'm hooking?" Patrick spits out, ice stiffening his spine. "I—I—okay, all right. So lucky fucking you, you don’t know about times getting that fucking hard…but get it straight, asshole. That's not who I am. It's what I have to do--*sometimes*. What I am is…" and suddenly his face burns and he ends up mumbling, "a hunter, jerk-off. A hunter, like you." Patrick rolls eyes at himself—admitting to sometimes turning tricks is less embarrassing than telling Dean he's a hunter?

Dean looks at him, his mouth drops in surprise and then…he falls off the bed laughing. He laughs until his eyes water, he rolls to his side, curling up like a pillbug, laughing and laughing.

"Fuck you," Patrick yells. "Fuck you, you insufferable bitch!" He jumps to his feet and stomps over to where Dean is acting like a shithead. "Laugh it up, you fucking assmonkey."

"Assmonkey?" Dean gasps, and laughs again, high pitched now with a total lack of control, until Patrick stands over him over him, rips his shirt over his head and throws it to the ground next to Dean, who looks up and stops laughing like Patrick's put his foot on his throat.

"Holy motherfuckin' shit…Pat…"

Patrick's been tagged a few times by the job. The slices across his belly are pinkish and a bit crusty but thank god, not hot. There's a twisted scar running across his shoulder and up under his chin where a pissed off ghost shoved a sharp wooden splinter through it, angled it up trying to cut his throat. That was the night Patrick found out some ghosts don’t *want* to go on peacefully to whatever comes next. There's a network of white scars lacing his arms, and along one forearm, a long evil looking scar, a knife wound that…okay, Patrick will go to his grave never telling anyone that he did it to himself opening a box…but the rest are one hundred per cent courtesy of the job.

Dean is staggering to his feet, staring at Patrick like he's a fairytale monster come to life or something.

"Dude," he says, and reaches out, almost touches before dropping his hand. "What the fuck did you do to yourself? Dude…why?"

And Patrick laughs like Dean'd been laughing. "Why? Why? What was I supposed to do after what we did, Dean—sell potting soil?" He stepped up to Dean, invaded his personal space. "What did I have left? You took the last freakin' bit of safety out of my life. I had to…besides, after what I found out, how could I not help? This job needed me. So I went."

Dean turns away. When he turns back towards Patrick, he grabs the bottle off the nightstand. "So tell me what you've hunted."

God damn emotionally stunted Winchesters *fucks*, Patrick growls to himself. Grabs the bottle away from Dean. "Okay…."  


~~~~~~

  
"--so I got on a bus and just…went. I knew what I wanted to do…" Dean hears the catch in Pat's voice and smiles at him, and Pat smiles back, and goes on, more confidently. "I met some people who knew about the Job, and they helped me get started. First job was a salamander—this town had all these unexplained poisonings and it turned out to be a salamander. Iron kills them pretty good, but you've got to bury the body deep, and in sand. That way they can't burn—boy, not a good idea to set those things on fire--."

Dean shoves back against the headboard, gets comfortable, and watches Patrick talk about life after Lodi.

"Anyway," Patrick says, finishing his story, "Things worked out and here I am and it's not bad. I really get your dad now—the way he did the things he did," and Dean has to fight wincing. "There is one thing though," Patrick sighs. "I miss, I mean, jeez, I miss it like crazy—"

"Lodi?"

Patrick looks at him like he's crazy. "*Hell* no—I miss cheese steaks. I mean, come on damn it. How hard is it to make a damn cheese steak? Meat and cheese and a real roll, y'know? Or pizza, for shit's sake. Pizza, how do you screw pizza up?"

Dean's grinning. He remembers cheese steaks, they were pretty good. He smiles at Patrick, a sudden flash of fondness sweeps through him. "You’re a good guy, Pat. I'm glad you found something good for yourself."

Pat stops, his eyes widen in surprise and he sits on the end of the bed. "Yeah, well. You're okay too." He gets up and rummages around the room, comes back with a package of crackers and a small block of cheddar cheese. "Hungry?"

Dean rolls his eyes. "Always. Some pie would go nice with that cheese, man."

Patrick stares before snorting. "I don't remember you being so high-maintenance, dude."

"What? I just said it would be nice to have some pie, I didn't say *get* me some pie. Bitch."  


6

  
Dad puts off meeting again for a few days, so Dean drags Pat along to the laundromat, makes him keep him company. It's quiet in the afternoon, and there's actually decent air conditioning in the place. In fact, it's cleaner than the damn hotel. Pat sits on the folding table between the dryers, and reads a magazine he found under one of the chairs. It's an entertainment mag, and apparently, it's pretty damn funny. Pat's sitting there smiling, one long black wing hanging along his cheek. Dean swallows. Wipes his fingers on his thigh. He leans back against the bank of dryers and lets the steady whoosh whoosh of tumbling clothes fill his mind. He's just about drifting off, feeling really comfortable and a weird kind of…safe…when, "Hey, when was the last time you went to the movies," Pat asks him out of nowhere.

"Hunh?" It takes Dean a second to kick his brain into gear. "I d'know. Man…um, X-Men, maybe…? Why? You wanna go?" He blushes and scowls at how it sounds. "I mean, got no money to waste on that shit," he says, and grabs his stuff out of the dryer and dumps it on the table.

"Nah," Pat says, and tosses the magazine aside and digs into the pile of clothes. "Just wondering. Wolverine. That was the last movie I went to. 'Cause I'd fuck Wolverine in a second."  
"Jesus! Shit, dude—I don't wanna know that."

Pat pauses with a half-folded t-shirt in his hand, wide eyed with surprise and then his face closes down, the little smile he had goes away. "Yeah. What was I thinking? 'Course you wouldn't."

Dean huffs, and crams folded and unfolded clothes together into a clean garbage bag. Why couldn't Pat just let it go? Mistakes got made and people did things they regretted, did wrong things and…and then had to deal with them and go on. That was life--

"Dean, you know—"

"Patrick. I know once l let myself get talked into—*stuff*. I don’t do *stuff*. I don’t care if you do, not really--just. Keep it to yourself." _Because I almost killed that memory and you bring it back. Don’t want to think like that about Sam…_.

"Stuff! That's what it was…stuff?" Pat stands so fast, the table creaks. He looks…like a hunter, Dean thinks. Dangerous. "Yeah. See ya 'round, Dean."

Pat stomps off towards the doors and Dean kind of freaks himself out by grabbing Pat's sleeve. He hardly recognizes his voice when he stammers out, "Don't okay? Not yet—got this case coming up and I really need help—" He channels Sammy like a motherfucker and because he's a cast iron bastard he doesn't mind using it--much—

Pat blushes, and he huffs. Jerks his sleeve loose from Dean's grip and turns his back on him. But he sits back down. The magazine he tossed away earlier does duty now as a wall between the two of them…Dean marvels how loud Pat's silences can be.  


~~~~~~

  
"--pie. I'm telling ya, best ever. At least it was last time I was in here…" Dean stops talking and grins with his whole face at some top heavy bimbo, and if this was way back when, Patrick would probably have been bending over the table thinking he was having a heart attack, because for some horrible fucked up reason, Sam was the only person Dean could be with and not make Patrick feel like he was drowning. How fucked up was that?

Instead, Patrick stares out the window, watching heat shimmers waver over the street. Right now, he's just glad he's not fucking Dean, because he's seen the chicks Dean wants to fuck. All the way to the diner, Dean licked his lips and rolled his eyes at bitches who made Patrick glad he was gay—he wouldn't have touched any of them wearing a full body condom and if that's what Dean wanted, then even if something nearly miraculous happened, and Dean wanted it from him, *no* way. He wouldn't fuck Dean wearing five condoms and a hazmat suit. Not that he wanted to fuck Dean. Or that Dean would want to fuck him, what with having forgotten that summer like the guy had fucking amnesia.

Patrick takes a deep breath, counts to ten before giving up. He has no right. No right to be pissed at Dean, no right to be angry that Sam couldn’t see past Dean that summer, or that what happened happened or that…he's pissed at himself that he just can't seem to let it go. Thinking about that shit was just hopping on the bus to Crazy Town and he seriously needed to *stop*.

The waitress saunters past again, swinging her hips so hard, Patrick's amazed that her joints don't pop out the sockets. The look she gives Dean says, 'I'm not wearing underwear', and Patrick wonders just how Dean dares call him a whore. She shrugs a round shoulder towards the back and licks her lips like she learned from the movies, mouths "coming?" just in case Dean's stupider than a brick, Patrick figures, and needs flash cards telling him he's about to get some.

"Oh ma…" Dean swipes his mouth with his napkin and grins at Patrick. Slides out of the booth with a wink. "Back in a sec, Pat. Well," he chuckles--so nasty Patrick flushes and frowns at Dean. "Might be more than a sec. Grab another cup of coffee. Better grab two…." Dean mutters as he watches McWhore head over to the bathrooms.

Patrick glares after Dean, so pissed off his jaw feels like it's cracking. Seriously--did that asshole just order him to wait until he got off? Fucker! Bastard….

Patrick stares out the window, thinks, _I can get back to the hotel in about ten minutes if I walk real fast, take the killer Gremlin and go find Sam and tell him how his brother's acting out like a slut asshole and treating me like shit and…and *what*, you pathetic ass?_ Patrick sits and sips bitter coffee and waits and tries really hard not to look as pathetic as he knows he is. He tries for a sardonic, world-weary look, been there, done that, like he's just one of the hetero boys, waiting for his bud to come on back and tell him all about how the pussy was.

Horribly, that's just what Dean does. In graphic detail.  


~~~~~~

  
Sam waits until Jess is asleep, and then opens his laptop and composes a long ass letter to Dean, telling him what's happened that week, how he's doing in school, tells him about the ghost cat he put down Saturday, and how he's pretty sure the lady working in the used bookstore downtown is an honest-to-god, familiar having, dance-in-the–moonlight-nekkid witch. There's this way she has of looking at him, like she's snarking right through him…he asks Dean how Dad is, how the car is, does he miss him, ever think of him, and tells Dean how he only thinks of him a million times all day, and then a million times all night.

He sniffs like a bitch, wipes his eyes and grabs a beer instead of his phone; he's not up to listening to saved messages tonight.

Back at his desk, Sam rereads the mail once or twice, nibbles at the mouth of the beer bottle before sighing. Deletes it like he has the one hundred and four letters before this one.

It's good to have a hobby.

He finishes the beer, closes the laptop and checks the room's wards before climbing into bed with Jess, who doesn't wake at all when he does.  


7

  
Alex calls and Patrick and he talk for nearly an hour before he gives him the location and what information they have for a new job. It's small, and simple—they suspect an infestation of brownies. Not exactly dangerous, but still…there's also been some signs of demonic activity in South Dakota and talking to Alex, he gets the sense that's it's rare for the area. _Demons…_ Patrick runs quickly through what he knows about them, and it's not much. Not his forte. More experienced hunters will take the job on, but if he's lucky, someone will let him tag along.

Patrick wipes the parts of the gun he's broken down with oil, buffs the parts clean. There's a knock on the door--so tentative that at first he doesn't hear it over Niles' love-sick babbling over Daphne…

"Who?" he yells against the door and "Dean," is the answer. Dean stomps through as soon as he opens it. He's carrying his war bag; he's got a huge shirt tied around his waist…and a huge scowl darkening his face. He slams the bag to the floor and Patrick winces.  
"Jeez, Dean, what the hell—"

"I'm getting ready to leave. You coming?"

Patrick gapes at this totally insane individual barking what is apparently an invitation or possibly an order to travel with him, and that just seems all kinds of *stupid*. He and Dean can barely be in the same room together—they've never hunted together besides the one time he got used as bait, they have no idea how the other works, not to mention there's this…complicated history. And it might screw things up with Alex. Not that there's anything to screw up, not really, not yet…and besides…"I've got a job, in Washington, and—"

"Great. Fine. Then after we can meet up with my Dad. There's a possible possession out by Bobby's way—Bobby's a family friend—so, you're coming."

Not even a question—a statement. Patrick's really pissed off, at least until he sees past the scowl, sees the uncertainty coiled in the corners of Dean's mouth and the way his eyes shift, the green darkening…fuck. Patrick curses himself for a big fucking girl. "Okay."

"Good," Dean smirks. "I got your tab, you're cool. Need me to help you put that thing back together?" He jerks his chin at the piece in Patrick's hand.

"Fuck you," he mutters and reassembles the Glock as Dean offers what he probably thinks is helpful advice. "So…I'll follow you, right?"

"Oh god, hell no. You leave that piece of shit at the next place that caters to hunters. You're riding with me."

Patrick stretches his legs out in front of him, clasps his hands over his stomach. "Well...depends…do I get to drive, too?" He's got to bite his lip to keep from giggling. Dean's face is wide open with horror.

"No! Maybe. If I'm bleeding out. Oh fuck, okay, but you hurt her and I'll hurt you right back."

"Promises," Patrick grins and enjoys Dean's blush.  


~~~~~~

  
Sam wanders across the street, pushing a cart loaded with dirty laundry. Jess was great, Jess cooked like an angel—miraculously turn heaps of nothing into real food, and keep their crappy little apartment so clean it made the place look better than it was. Not only that, Jess looked hot as hell and fucking invented sex—but laundry was not on the menu. Doing laundry's okay with Sam. He's learned to like sitting in the Laundromat, reading while the clothes go through the cycles. The noise in the place is the kind of noise he's come to associate with comfort and safe and family. Little kids bitching at each other, the squeak-thrum of the machines, the mutter of radio or TV…it might be an odd thing to like, but there it was. How many afternoons or late nights in his childhood had been spent watching Dean load and unload the machines, helping him fold clothes…eating M&Ms and spinning stories for his brother. He closes his eyes, and can see Dean's small patient smile, the way he'd cock his head towards him like _'I'm listening hard Sammy I hear you.'_ Sam can almost taste the dollar store chocolate coins in his mouth, bloomed chocolate that still tasted wonderful, tasted even better if he had to pick them off Dean's sweaty palm….

Sam shakes himself. Not going down that path, not when he fought so hard not to. He thumbs though his book; looking for the place he left off at….

He's in the middle of folding a pair of boxers with _'kiss the cook'_ printed across the front and something makes him turn, look out of the window behind him. It's almost not a shock to see Patrick on the sidewalk across the street. The sun's making his black hair shine, still long, pulled back and braided…he got bigger. Wider. He's staring at Patrick, wondering if maybe, he should go out and say hi. Wonders if he can say hi without cursing Patrick out.

However, it *is* a shock--a deeply painful, full-body shock that makes him think it must be like this to be electrocuted--when the Impala rolls up, hunkers at the curb to pick Patrick up. Patrick smiles, and the way he smiles, it hurts.

Sam blinks, and comes back to the here and now. He's torn between the desire to dive under the table, and to run out in the street and pull Pat away from the car. He sees Patrick's got a backpack, looks heavy—it's lumpy and lopsided from being packed with stuff, and he can see Dean's arm, tan, flecked with copper freckles, resting along the doorframe. He knows the music blasting from the car's speakers; those songs were almost his fucking lullabies, until he grew old enough to pretend to hate them. He's staring out the window so hard, he doesn't hear the footsteps behind him, jumps a million miles when hands land on his hip and a deep voice goes "boo" in his ear.

"Jesus fucking Christ—Jess!"

"Sam!" Jess' eyes are huge, a little frightened. Sam's fist is inches from them, his knuckles brushing messy, blonde bangs….

Sam swallows. He's made two huge mistakes—he's let his attention wander, and he's let his real reflexes show. Reflexes he fought to cover so he could appear to be normal, average, to be just like everyone else.

"Fuck…Sam. You. Did you use to box or something?" Jess asks with a shaky laugh. "Cause, wow, you're *good*. And thanks for not kicking my ass, lover."

Sam pulls Jess into a hug, "I'm sorry, baby. I—yeah, I used to train with my brother. He—he was the boxer, not me." The lie trips off his tongue so easily, and Sam wonders why he even bothers. Glances at the window where the Impala isn't anymore. When he looks back down, Jess is staring up at him in a speculative way.

"Your brother…would be…the Dean?"

Fucking hell—Jess is too fuckin' smart…Sam curses himself--his fault for going for looks *and* brains. "Give you a dollar if you help me fold these clothes," he says and dimples. Sam knows damn well how dangerous his smiles are. Not like he hasn't worked on it….

Of course, Jess calls him on his shit, and then kisses him stupid. And doesn't help him fold.  


8

  
Patrick slides into the car—grateful; he's finally got room for his knees….

"Your brother's in there," he says and jerks his chin at the Wash'n'Dry across the street.

"Yeah…I see him." Dean says, his voice flat and not inviting comment. Spins the wheel hard and rolls away from the curve, steadily accelerating. He tilts his head back, could be looking behind him, could be looking straight in front of them--black Ray-Ban knock-offs not revealing a thing.

"He saw us." Patrick twists a bit towards Dean and wishes he could read the parts of Dean's face he can see. Sam would know what he was thinking right now.

"Yeah, I know." Hostile.

Patrick nods, but something makes his mouth keep moving. He's pretty sure it's not his brain because to keep on about this…*thing*… is stupid and potentially dangerous and yet…"That's…not the girl he was flirting with the other day."

"I can *see* that," Dean snaps, and pulls away from the light with a jerk that he unselfconsciously mutters an apology to his girl for, strokes the dash.

Pat doesn't say anything until they're well on the way. His fingers drum against the door, he inhales once or twice, fidgets in the seat and bangs his knees against the glove box a couple of times, until Dean looks like he's about ready to smack the hell out of him. He licks his lips and then very carefully says, "So…Jess. Must be short for…Jesse, you think?"  
"Shut the fuck up," Dean says and that's pretty much it for the next seven hours, until they switch off driving in Eugene and Dean bitches the rest of the way, and Patrick exhales a small gentle sigh of relief.  


~~~~~~

  
They get redirected when they get to Washington.

The brownies fall to the wayside when it turns out Patrick and Dean are the most experienced hunters in the area, and there's a suspicion of something pretty damn big going on, something nastier by far than needle-teethed, buggy-eyed little brownies. They're sent to Bennett, a busy tourist town at the foot of the mountains, full of antique stores, b&b's and upscale cafes…Patrick gets sent out as point man. He's tall and pretty and looks good in Dean's powder blue polo and khakis, even though Dean bitches it looks like Patrick spray-painted his clothes on. He shuts up with a load of attitude after Patrick asks him if he was jealous--or maybe curious?

Patrick walks around and smiles a lot, looking touristy and tame. He watches and listens, touches things in the shops and keeps an ear out for the odd—the frightened. He finds it.

Back at the motel, Dean's gathering information from local papers, from polices reports and medical examiner offices…there's enough information to clearly see what they're dealing with and Dean decides Patrick's buddies were pretty good at what they did. They'd guessed right. A werewolf is hunting the town.

Patrick comes in with dinner and they compare notes. Patrick spoons out fried rice between the two of them, and half-way through an egg-roll Dean says, "I'm calling my dad."

"What?" Patrick frowns. "We can do it on our own, Dean. We don't need help."

"Pat, he's close and if he's between jobs, you can't want a better man to join us. He's got serious experience. Hunting a were is no fucking joke, dude."

Patrick agrees, reluctantly. He's over his annoyance by the time they dig into desert—nothing's funnier than Dean with pie—unless it's Dean with pie and a scoop of ice cream. Patrick makes a game of watching Dean lick his fork clean with orgasmic little groans and not getting caught doing it. The game slowly morphs into something else…Patrick's not sure if Dean's doing it on purpose now, whether he's picked up on Patrick listening to him, watching his tongue curve around the tines of the fork and slip crust and thick sugary apple filling between his lips…maybe begins to play it up. Pat's cheeks flame, and he finds himself trying not to lick his lips, especially when a drop of filling clings gleaming in the center of Dean's plump lower lip like a drop of…Patrick swallows hard.

After a bit, He gets up and shuffles to the bathroom, feeling the heat on the back of his neck and right before he shuts the bathroom door, he's pretty sure he hears Dean's self-satisfied little chuckle. Oh fuck him, Pat growls to himself, he's not about to let that deep in denial closeted son of a bitch make him the object of amusement for however long it takes them to do the job....

He sobs out a little gasp of pleasure, squeezes his hand tight and a cloudy pearl of pre-come wells up and drips over the flared rim of his dick…he imagines Dean's horror at being the object of his fantasies and comes faster than he has in a long while. He leans a hip against the sink and waits until his breath eases down from shuddering jerks to regular breaths. He drags two wet fingers across his lower lip, closes his eyes and imagines…licks the wet away and sighs.

When he leaves the bathroom Dean's gone and for a quick, miserable bite of unease, he thinks Dean's taken off, but no. He's outside, perched on the Impala's hood, a cigarette pinched between his fingers and his face turned towards the setting sun.  


~~~~~~

  
Their meeting place with John is in a ball field almost outside of town.  
They watch a black '86 GMC Sierra Grande park tailgate to grill with the Impala, and a tall, broad-shouldered figure swing out of it, walks stiff-legged over to where they're leaning against a tree, sipping coffee. Dean hands his dad a steaming cup of his own and a Newport when he gets close and Patrick watches them closely. They smile at each other—not big, but John's eyes wrinkle at the corners and his whole face warms, the way Dean's does when he's pleased. He takes Dean's offering and squeezes his arm, quick, tight, and pulls off with a little pat to the shoulder. Patrick sees Dean's mouth curl in the corners, and his eyes crinkle just like John's and he colors a bit, a faint flush of pink over his cheeks that he hides with the take-out cup.

John lights the cigarette with total concentration, inhales like it's a gift from God and sips carefully at the steaming liquid, glances uninterestedly over at Patrick before doing a small double take. "Fuck me…Pat? Patrick—'sat you?"

"Yes sir," Patrick responds, absurdly pleased John remembers him.

"Well, well. Look at you." He looks Patrick up and down, checking him out like he's the answer to a puzzle. "You grew up good, Pat. Knew you'd come to handle yourself like a man. We got time to work out some," he says, that comment directed at Dean. "Try and sync up, right?"

Dean nods. "Pat's in damn good shape," he says, and glances at Patrick in a way that makes him stand taller, throw his chest out and plant his feet solidly.

"Yeah," John says thoughtfully. His eyes slide over Dean before resting on Patrick again. "He is at that. Well, boys, I don’t know if you've been driving as long as I have, but I'm ready for a piss and a shower and a half decent bed. Dean—got a base yet?"

"'Course, sir. You'll like this place," he says, and grins wickedly at his dad. Patrick throws a puzzled look at Dean. The place they've found is a dump—not as horrible as the hotel in Cali but still…nothing to write home about. Purple wallpaper and brown rugs…Pat shudders.

John glances at Patrick and winces. "Dean has…unique taste in accommodations. Break it to me gently, Pat—does this place charge by the hour--or make you pay extra for sheets?"

John's eyes crinkle deeply at the corners. Pat laughs when Dean does, it makes him feel like one of the boys.  


~~~~~~

  
They lay in bed in the dark, Patrick in the bed closest to the door and Dean against the far wall—flipped for it, and Patrick has the feeling he won the toss but he wasn't sure why…he stares up at the measled ceiling and bites his lip. He speaks, softly enough so Dean can ignore him if he's asleep or pretending to be. "You know, I dreamed about you guys for so long…I really wanted to be part of your family." It surprises him when Dean answers right away, like he's been waiting for it.

"Even after knowing how fucked up we were?"

It's probably the most Dean was ever going to say about what happened between them all. "Wasn't fucked up— " Patrick snorts—that was a patently stupid thing to say. "Okay, yeah, it kind of was, but. It was also…good. For me, it was good. And Sam. He really loves you, man. It must have hurt to leave you…is that why you spy on him—?"

"Get it straight--he left because I fucked up. He hates me, asshole." Dean slams a fist into his pillow and makes a sound like a laugh. "When he can finally be bothered to pick up instead of letting his phone go to voice mail our conversations are strictly words of one syllable, man. Sam is…real polite these days." Dean laughs louder. "Man, he couldn't *wait* to get away and I didn't…I didn’t start it…did I start it?"

There's a crack in Dean's voice, Patrick tries to breathe through it for him, like that was possible. He knows too much. "I—I—"

"I stopped, Pat. I stopped! And he still left. He left, and every time…every time I see him he looks happier than he ever did with us. Sam's got what he wants." Dean coughs, clears his throat and when he speaks again his voice is light, amused. "Well. I guess he had to experiment on us to figure stuff out, hunh? Lucky fucking us, dude. Least he don’t hate you."

Patrick's eyes are tight shut in the dark; he can hear Dean shift to his side. His voice is muffled against a pillow. "Why should he? You weren't the sick fuck who screwed up his trust like I did…."

Silence from Dean then, and for the rest of the night. Patrick though…he keeps rearing up out of sleep with panicked gasps, having dreams about Sam. A beautiful, burning, black-eyed Sam, telling him all night long how much he loves him.  


9

  
The air was deciding whether to be thick and steamy, or clammy with an edge of chill. Patrick checks the sheath holding the knife John insisted he carry, rubs his thumb against it and sighs. He was shit with a knife. He was a pretty good shot, and handled a machete pretty darn well, if not elegantly. He had the strength to smash through meat and bone, and that's pretty much all it takes …but. Knives. He just doesn't like them.

John had directed the both of them down a barely accessible run, told them he'd meet them where the run crossed over a hiking path the town had put in. It was at the point the paths crossed that the bodies had been found, chests torn open and the hearts out, along with most of the insides--but the heart and liver were the only things eaten.

Patrick grips the silver blade at his hip tighter, the gun in his other hand loaded with silver bullets. _Werewolf._ He can't believe that he'd been planning on taking out some brownies and now here he is, in the asscrack of night, hiding under the trees and trying not to pee himself while he struggles to remember everything he can about werewolves. If he makes it out of this in one piece, he was fucking someone's brains out. Just then Dean turns to him, the moonlight turning his excited grin into a mask of fucking crazy.

"Fuck—I'm about to piss myself—how about you?" He sounds like he's about to get the best prize ever, like hunting werewolves is a gift his dad's giving him. Patrick decides it's not Crazy Dean he's going to be fucking if he gets out of this alive and in enough pieces to still want dick, 'cause if that werewolf comes after them, he's stuffing Dean in its gullet and running like hell.

Out in the dark, twigs crack and leaves shift. Patrick freezes and looks at Dean. Huge green eyes are locked on his. "Dude, you think it's your dad…?" _Please be Dad Winchester--_

It comes out from between the trees--at first, a darker shadow against the black, and then it stalks forward, an odd, spindly walk, like it's walking on nails. It's fully out from the trees, and batwing ears picked out in silver by the moonlight twitch and swivel towards them with each breath they take. It hunches forward again and then…unfolds.

It's…huge. Werewolves were big but this thing is—it's gigantic. It keeps rising and rising, until its shoulders block out the moon and its arms spread wide, a fucking condor's wingspan, tipped with knives.

"This…this doesn't look like any werewolf I've ever seen," Dean whispers harshly, "and I've killed a few." He licks his lips and flexes his fingers around the butt of the Colt.

Patrick turns to Dean, kind of awed--definitely impressed. "Really? A few—" before the suicidal depth of what he was doing caught up with him—about the same time Dean turned white as milk.

"WATCH THE WOLF—"

Patrick rips his head back around to face the thing. It's flexing at the knees, and suddenly, huge nostrils flare, wet and red inside, drinking up their scent. Patrick staggers, gets the distinct impression it's studying *him*. There's awareness in those eyes, cool, calculating, intelligence. There is a human looking back out of the yellow eyes in that long, fanged, face.

Fingers grip his sleeve and twist, hard enough to startle a hiss out of him. "Shit…you see it too?" Dean asks him. "What the fuck *is* that thing?"

The thing in question tilts its head, and then its eyes narrow, black velvet lips peel back from ivory spikes. Patrick can smell its breath from where they were. _"…Jesus,"_ and it's a prayer.

The were's lips writhe over its million wet teeth; it makes a sound. "Hurg-hurg-hurg…"

Laughing. It's fucking laughing--Patrick backpedals, shock making him move without thought, the reptile brain taking over, since the monkey wasn't smart enough to.

A litany of "fucking hell, fucking hell, fucking hell—" trails Dean as he breaks for the head of the deer run with Patrick. "Okay, okay—Dad's somewhere back of us, he's probably got a bead on this fucker now…" He gulps and darts eyes towards Patrick. Neither one of them wants to even consider that maybe—maybe John was—

The monster shakes all over and then jumps like fucking Carl Lewis, straight up and almost over their heads. Lands to their left and slightly behind them and makes that horrible laughing sound....

Dean slams his elbow into Patrick's side. "Run, Pat, run to the car." His pretty little Colt's trained on the were, and he looks equal parts scared shitless and determined as hell.

"Are you--fuck you! I'm not leaving," Patrick shouts, and draws on the thing, too. The were takes off, running sideways off the trail and for the trees and Patrick's wondering why the fuck it's not going after their livers. Dean curses, and shoots, curses again when the were staggers and blood flies. It claps a huge, long fingered paw against its shoulder. It wheels around, and its intent is plain to see—whatever reason it had for leaving, Dean's shot has changed its mind. It takes a step towards them, crouches—and suddenly leaps away from them again. Makes a noise that sounds like a curse, and jumps straight back through the trees like—

"Fucking Superman, dude. Look at that fucker fly!"

Suddenly John breaks through the brush behind them, cocking the shotgun as he comes, and yells out, "Run, idiots!"

The moment of frozen fear that had gripped the both of them pops like a bubble with the 'boo-yah' of the shotgun spitting out silver pellets and salt. Patrick puts his head down and just runs like fuck for the Impala, his brain helpfully providing the illusion of hot rank breath on the back of his neck, and so intent on putting distance between himself and the monster werewolf when Dean brushes him as he runs past, Patrick lets out a shriek.

They're in the car and more than halfway back to the motel before he feel the slightest prick of embarrassment about screaming. How bad the shit was, is just reinforced by Dean *not* teasing him for it. Patrick drops his head back against the hot vinyl seatback. He closes his eyes and swallows. He knows he is ready to kill that thing—the next time they meet, it's going to die, just…tonight, he'd been so fucking scared he'd wanted to cry. That thing dropped him right back into childhood nightmares. Nightmares so horrifying, so awful, even though he'd known full well who the monster was, breathing harsh and wet in the dark hallway outside his bedroom. Patrick shivers hard; his teeth chatter a little before he grabs control. Strong, hot fingers grip his thigh hard, shake just a little before settling to hold his knee.

Patrick's throat hurts, feels tight and raw....  


~~~~~~

  
Back at the motel, they're all crowded around one bed, the age-old instinct driving them to cower in the caves too strong to let them separate yet. Dean's shoved against the headboard, boots and all on the bedspread, and Patrick's cross-legged on the other twin, facing John. There's a bottle passing back and forth between them, and Patrick wishes it was a joint—booze makes him twitchy and short-tempered, too much of it makes him talk way too much. John takes a deep pull and passes it to Dean. "So, if you're wondering what the fuck that was, that, boys, was a warg," John says, his voice rumbling out of his chest, rough with Jack Daniels and tension.

Dean gapes at him, blinking blearily. "A what? A wart? The fuck?"  
"W-a-r-g," John spells patiently. "Old English. Means…well, basically it means rouge wolf. Pass."

Dean drinks again, and hands him the bottle. "That thing. Dad, that thing looked right at us. It knew what we were and it laughed at us. I swear that fucker said _'shit'_ when I shot it!"

John nodded and passes Patrick the bottle, then wipes his mouth with a sigh. "Probably did. Warg's aren't werewolves. They share a lot of traits with 'em, yeah, but werewolves are cursed humans. Three nights a month, they're animals, pure and simple. Well...not either of those, really. But *wargs*…they *choose* it. They're not cursed. Asked for what they are."  
Patrick grimaces, chokes a bit on the burning liquid. "Who the fuck would willingly…how do you choose a thing like that?"  
"Ask a demon in. A specific kind of demon, a specific kind of spell. Leaves the asker in charge of the body, the changes…lets him share carnage with the demon. Demon gets what it wants—blood and chaos, the asker gets power, revenge, the opportunity to satisfy bloodlust." John shakes his head, his face dark with disgust.

Dean leans back into the headboard. "Fuck. How do we deal with it? I mean, in that case, it could change any night it wanted—right?"

John shook his head. "No. The body has a limit. It gets three nights, like a real werewolf. Just…it's not bound by the moon. Or silver. Upside, regular bullet to the brain will take it out. So will ash stakes, I'm pretty sure…" He actually looked kind of doubtful, Patrick thought, and a little buzzed.

Patrick clears his throat, "My friends can research this for us. They're pretty damn good at this kind of thing."

John nodded. "Good. I say we take this on in the morning. In the meanwhile—nothing we can do right now. Sun's almost up--" He stands and says, "Go to sleep, boys. We've got work ahead of us."

Dean nods, toes off his boots. "Yes sir, g'night," he says, without a trace of sarcasm. Twenty-three years old and being sent to bed by Daddy, Patrick thinks. Winchesters.  


~~~~~~

  
"This is what we have. Okay, first, and bear in mind, it sounds nuts, yes. But, according to lore, a warg needs to remove--depending upon which legend you're reading--its apparel, or its pelt, or its human skin, and hide it, most myths have the things hanging it in the trees…so you're looking for one of those and sorry, we couldn't narrow that down for you."

Dean snorts and twists an eyebrow at the phone like the guy can see him. "Okay. That's…weird. Like, crock of shit weird." Really. And not very helpful.

Dad, though, he just looks thoughtful. "I don't know…I've heard stories about some creatures that do something like that…drop their skins…go on, son."

The voice over the phone says, "Right. So, some legends claim if you take the skin or block the thing from getting to it, the creature loses its power, some legends say it dies. Also, mistletoe, rye, and mountain ash are good defenses—stakes made of ash will kill it, iron will hurt it, and anything that will kill a man will kill a warg—brain, chest shot. Oh, and monkshood is poisonous to it, whether it's ingested or it touches it… and you're right, sir, silver doesn't bother it."

John nods and scratches notes in the back of his journal. Dean knows if the info pans out, "warg" will be getting an entry to itself. "Okay."

The voice on the line continues. "It's bound by a slightly different set of rules to the average werewolves."

Dean thinks that's pretty damn funny—average werewolf. He looks up and catches Pat grinning at him—he's caught the humor in that too.

"The warg is sharing its body with a demon, so there's a possibility it's bound by demon rules, too. Couldn't find anything there, but you might try to put a seal of Solomon around its skin-if you find it. One more thing—this bugger isn't just some guy who decides life's not worth living unless he's chewing on someone's liver. Quite a few legends reference necromancers, witches so high up the scale that they're practically a whole 'nother animal…and I realize that none of this is a whole lot of help. Ya'll have found yourselves something unique, for sure. Patrick, man, make sure you take *copious* notes, man."

Pat is beaming at Dean like he's the last donut in the box, and Dean realizes kind of crankily that he's just getting spillover meant for the guy on the phone. He figures this guy must be the Alex that Pat talks about from time to time. He has a nice voice, soft, deep…sounds like a big guy. Smart. Probably just Pat's type. Good looking, tall, brains…at least that's what Dean imagines Pat goes after.

Pat's holding the phone like it's a kitten and smiles into the air. "Thanks, Alex. We really appreciate your help. And…maybe after this job, I should come by the Post House with the info?"

"Man, if you don't want me to hurt you, yes. Have you been eating right?" The change is so abrupt that Dean blinks. Patrick colors a bit, and shoots a look of apology before putting his back to them and sort of hunching over the phone. Off speaker phone, he speaks so quietly, Dean can't catch a word, not that it matters or anything.

Dad stretches, rubs the back of his neck. His eyes are red, he really looks tired, Dean thinks, and feels a sharp quick burst of worry before dismissing it. Hell, that's John Winchester—it'd take all of hell to take him out, even on his worst day. Dean grins at him, and Dad tosses him a wink. "Okay, boys. That's it. Give Alex my thanks, Pat."

Pat looks full of pride as he cuts the connection. Dean watches him, notes the blush, the brightness in his eyes…oh yeah, Pat's got himself a real bad case, he thinks. Wonder how that'll work out?  


~~~~~~

  
John maps out his plan and Dean shouts him down, angry, and insulted, hurt.

"Why are *we* looking for the fucking skin? What sense does that make? We all go after the warg—odds on our side that way. Dad, it makes no sense for us to split up!"

"Dean, I want you and Pat looking for that skin, ward it and if you get a chance destroy it. I'm doing what I know is right—I have more experience than you with this sort of thing—a better chance against the warg.

Dean just manages to turn a foot stamp into kicking the table leg…Patrick watches the table wobble dangerously, the laptop shift a little…he moves to catch it because it looks like Dean's about to kick it again….

"Dean," John shouts, and Dean jerks to attention. "Sir," he shouts back, but the tone is totally different, totally void of rebellion.

"That's the plan, hear me?"

"S'suicidal," Patrick hears Dean mutter but John must choose to ignore it. "And how much experience do I need—Dad, I've been hunting with you since I was fourteen! I've bagged mine, too. I know how to track and gank a were—"

"Pat doesn't. And you haven't gone against something like that and—"

"Dad. Please. You can't do this alone." Dean's face is twisted, pale and his eyes are a little brighter than normal.

"Dean, don't fight me on this. This thing—it's not your typical monster. There's a man, awake and aware in that head and," John smiles, and Patrick takes a casual step back…"My country spent a lot of money training me to handle something like that."

Dean's not buying it, not so much as a little bit, but he's quiet now. Patrick is in awe of John Winchester. How did that man manage to do that to Dean, fashion such an unbreakable rein on him? Did Dean even know that is was only himself that kept him second to John? Patrick was pretty sure that John knew it, and he wondered just how far John would be willing to take it….

"Let's go over our weapons…oh, and I picked up something…" John pulls a plastic quart container holding a spindly plant out of a bag, the kind sold at big box hardware places all over. He drops it on the table and smiles. Dean pulls a plastic tag out of the dirt. "Aconitum…" he reads, comfortable with the Latin. "Monk's Hood?"  
World's of so-what are written over Dean's forehead and John smiles."Wolf's Bane," he says.

"Hunh." Patrick leans closer, pokes the little blue flowers clustered along the ends of a thin stem. "I thought it'd look...I don’t know. More…"

"Butch?" Dean grins. "Think those should look like manly, monster killing flowers? 'Cause appearances are never deceiving, right, Pat--"

Patrick glances quick at John, who's looking at him kind of…speculatively. But he just shakes his head. "Don’t listen to Dean," he says, "he can be kind of an…asshole sometimes."

"Hey! Standing right here!"

Patrick nods at John and has the feeling that…a whole lot of things just got said without a word. He's pretty sure John knows and doesn't give a shit. Good. John flashes Patrick a quick smile. "Alex did a good job for us; make sure you thank him for me. I'm turning in; suggest you guys do the same. We'll meet around one at the car, right?"

They both nod and John shuts the door. Patrick glares at Dean. "He's right, you are an asshole."

"What! What the fuck did I say ?" Dean yells, hands in the air and shoulders around his ears. "What?"

"Go to sleep," Patrick growls. He can feel Dean's eyes on him as he leaves the room.  


10

  
"Hey…" Sam eases himself down on the bed next to Jess, runs his palm over Jess' hip, enjoying the silky-smooth, warm curve. "Sleepy?"

"Yes, damn it, I can hardly keep my eyes open."

"Oh!" Sam goes to move his hand and Jess grabs it back.

"Oh, no you don’t—I'm never that tired." Sam laughs, and Jess crinkles up with a bright smile, looking not a bit sleepy. "But if I close my eyes, and if you hear snoring, just ignore it…."

Sam laughs harder, burrows into Jess' neck, as always a little bit surprised at how smooth it is, how baby-fine the skin feels in his favorite spot right under Jess' chin. Smiles at himself—he's come to like that. "Okay," he murmurs, in between little kisses, "but it'll be a little like necrophilia, won't it, you lying all still and…quiet." He worms a hand under Jess' shirt, and bunches his fingers in the hem, scratching softly at warm smooth skin.

"Kinky—no, wait—actually, that's kind of gross. And yeah--somehow, I don't think we have to worry about me being quiet, sweetheart." Jess spread his arms with a wide smile. "Take it off, big boy."

"Ick. Never say that again, hear?" Sam sits up, straddles Jess' hips and slowly shoves the worn, thin material of the shirt up his body. Jess is small compared to Sam, small compared to Dean, lithe and compact, and golden all over. He's got the muscles of a swimmer, and at first had seemed so thin to Sam but now…Sam strokes his chest, thumbs his nipples. Traces the tattoo circling his navel. "Yeah," he breathes and yanks the hem upward.

Jess snickers and rolls his shoulders up, going with the motion of Sam working his t-shirt over his head and off, laughs at Sam's triumphant grin. Sam works it, whirls the shirt over his head, flings it into a corner with a little bump and grind.

Jess smirks, "Bring it on, Kansas," then follows that wicked look with a pout. "Kiss," he demands, and Sam brushes shaggy, twisted blonde curls off his face, mutters into Jess' cheek, "You need a haircut, babe, can't see your eyes…"

Jess growls and reaches up; he grabs a handful of Sam's own unruly bangs and pulls him down for a kiss. As fierce as the grab is, the kiss itself is kind of sweet, slow, thorough; the way Sam likes it…the way Patrick taught him. Jess' lips are as full and as soft as (Dean's) Patrick's, he likes sucking Jess' bottom lip in and nibbling, biting and licking the hurt away…like berries, sweet and full of juice…Jess moans, pulls Sam down on top of him. "Hurts…"

Sam pulls away." Really? Sorr—"

"Not really," he grins against Sam's mouth. "Do it again—harder."

Sam growls and bites down, tugs until Jess moans out loud, and licks, kisses his swollen lip until he purrs. "Kinky, yourself," Sam smirks.

"Ummmm-hum." Jess wiggles, getting his hands between Sam and himself, shoves his shorts and boxers down. Sam groans, flexes hard. Jess presses up against him. His dick is hard, and silky hot against Sam's belly. Sam rolls his hips against Jess until his own dick is steel hard, aching to get out of his jeans, and Jess yanks them down.

"Ouch!" Sam glares at him and rubs the red streaks on his thighs.

Jess rolls his eyes and bats at Sam's hands. "You didn't feel that, big baby. Swear, I've never met anyone as tender as you, the slightest little scratch and you're crying…" Jess crinkles his eyes at Sam, and then looks him over, his fingers drifting lightly over scars, dimples in Sam's flesh…"so how does such a big crybaby manage to have so many scars...?"

Sam grabs Jess' fingers and sucks on them, tickling between them with his tongue, nibbling at the pads until Jess is giggling and moaning at the same time. Sam lets them drop out of his mouth dripping wet. "Fuck me," he says, and Jess' eyes go dark.

"God, yes…"

Sam slides down and takes Jess' dick into his mouth, running his tongue along the velvet smooth curve, looping around the crown, teasing his tongue into the slit and sucking out every bit of taste--clean skin, with a hint of soap…a taste like the sweet-salt of blood, and almost as thick…Sam loses himself in sucking until Jess grabs his hair—

"Hey, unless you want the show to end here, you gotta let up, Kansas."

"Okay...okay...just…you taste so good, I can't help it."

Jess grins. "I know." He pushes Sam to his back and spreads his legs, to look, and touch, and Sam lets him; for these few minutes, he enjoys being treasured.

"God, you…you're…perfect." Jess strokes and touches him, teases him until Sam is twisting, trying to capture Jess' fingers, begging for him to open him, push inside. Shivers take him when Jess finally does—he loves the feel of his fingers fucking him open, sliding inside, loves the little burn and how it shifts into a wave of warmth, loves the electric sizzle that dances through him when Jess hits the right spot inside…he loves it all.

Sam's panting by the time Jess lifts his legs over his thighs and slides inside of him in one long push. Sam throws his head back, his arms going up and crossing over his face—he cries out, "fuck," and jerks against air….

"Hey, hey, sweetheart, look at me. I know you don't—look at me, okay?"

Sam pulls his arms down and forces his eyes open. _Jess, Jess, this is Jess, he loves Jess,_ "love you—" he gasps.

"I know you do. I love you too," he replies and groans, "gotta move, okay?" And surges up, up, until Sam feels like he's hanging in midair, burning, burning…

In his mind, it's always Dean—it's why he has to close his eyes. He loves Jess, he really does—he makes him happy and helps to fill the empty spaces left behind when he excised that Winchester stuff. But…there's still a Dean shaped hole nothing can ever fill, so he dreams…imagines Dean is happy to be with him, wants him. Dean is sliding into him and praying, thankful for this, thankful that they can be together like this…Dean's strong, calloused hand is wrapped around his dick and knows just the right way to touch him, how tight he wants it, how fast…Sam groans, bits his lip. Jess, Dean, they flash together in his head until he's really not sure who's fucking him…Jess' voice calls out his name, Sam opens his eyes again and tears spill out.

"Oh, Sam, Sam…" Jess throws his head back, he shakes, groans with the intensity of orgasm…Sam can feel Jess flex inside him, comes hard with him, biting his lip all the while, keeping his mouth closed tight.

 

After, cleaned up and relaxed, Sam rubs Jess's shoulder, gently stroking him into sleep. Smiles when he mutters and huffs and turns into Sam, curling like a kitten against him. Sam holds Jess, and murmuring stories quietly under his breath until he passes into sleep too.

_He knocks on the door. It swings open and Dean's standing there, big grin on his face, skin glowing in soft candlelight that fills the apartment behind him. "Hey, we were waiting for you."_

_Sam puts his backpack down right inside the door and grabs Dean in a hug, pushes him back and stares, avidly raking him with his eyes. "God, you look good. Where is he?"_  
"In the kitchen. Waiting for you. But first—" Dean reaches out and touches him, fingertips soft as silk, stroke his cheek…"love you babe, missed you a lot--you know that right? Love you…."  


~~~~~~

  
Dean wakes up to Pat kneeling at the side of his bed, and for a moment, he's lost in dreams—he reaches out and touches Pat's cheek. It's soft as a peach, warm. His fingers curl around the curve of it, fingertips brush over the tiny, fine hairs there. It's nice. "Hey…"

"Dude, wake up," Pat says, and taps him on the arm, real gentle. "Wake up."

Dean blinks hard, and fakes that he'd been sleeping when he curved his fingers around Pat's cheek. "Wha—time already? Okay, fuck, I'm up."

Pat stands up and hunches over the crooked little table in the room, doing something…Dean smells coffee at the same time Pat turns with a take-out cup in his hand.

"Thanks." He takes it, and drinks deep, groaning. Nothing like coffee in the morning to let you know you didn’t die in the night. Pat smiles at him. He's been entirely too happy since they talked to this Alex dude. Dean shakes his head. Yeah, and it was his business to worry about it how? Right. "Time for a shower?" he grumbles and Pat shakes his head no. "Shit. Okay."

Fifteen minutes later, they're standing in the motel lot, and here comes Dad, bearing down on them. His eyes take inventory quick as lightening. Pat— from the machete he's got hanging from a belt-loop and his little Glock tucked up in his waistband, plus the leaf-shaped iron blades he'd taken with a frown. Dean watches his dad's eyes sweep over him, checking out the modified bag holding gasoline, holy water, just in case, sitting between his feet. He nods once, his eyes flicking over Dean's waist. Dad knows he's got his Colt--of course. He pats his pocket again, making sure for the tenth time the Zippo's in there. No good going to a party without party favors. He grins at Dad and Dad smirks back before his face goes blank—all business.

His dad's ready to war. He's got the Mossberg, along with iron and silver shot—"just in case" he'd said, and his Desert Eagle, because the thing will stop a crazed bear—hell, Dean blew a wyvern into kibbles and bits with it and those bitches are armored like tanks. It's a good piece but still….

Dean's feeling bitter, and trying hard not to show it, but he thinks it's ridiculous that Dad's wasting the extra firepower he could provide. Sending him out with Pat, looking for something that's just not important, s'fucking busy work. What's important is nailing the warg; they can look for the fucking skin later. And like Dad's got ESP, his eyes shoot over to Dean; lock with his. "You got your part in this, right Dean?"

"Yes sir." What else can he say? Fucking Sam. Ever since he left, Dad's doing his best to shield Dean—god damn it. That's why he tries to hunt on his own, because Dad's driving him nuts with this. Doesn't he trust him not to get killed—doesn’t he *trust* him?

Pat makes a noise and Dean looks over at him. His eyebrows are asking if he's okay. Dean gives him a quick sharp nod. _Yes. Fine._

The look John gives Pat makes Dean's chest burn. Damn it. Dad's testing this guy, that's what he's doing…Dean feels like Dad's checking Pat out, maybe thinking…if Dean leaves….

Dean shakes himself. Thinking like that is distracting and distraction will get you killed. He takes a deep breath and works hard to put himself in the space he needs to be. A job is a job. You do it and that's it. So. He's gonna find the fucking hell out of that fuckin' skin.

John moves past him and grabs his collar, whispers, "Don’t kid yourself boy—no job is simple and safe--no job. Be on point." He's in the front seat of the Impala before Dean can even inhale and Pat—Pat jumps in the back. Good. He'd have choked Pat if he'd grabbed shotgun.  


~~~~~~

  
It's a nice night—cool, with a little bit of a breeze, and Dean curses that. It shifts the leaves and small branches so there's almost constant noise. There are other constant noises—animals, distant traffic--so he stands still, concentrating as the sounds wash over him until he knows what to ignore. He sees Pat looking at him kind of oddly. S'okay, he'll get it, someday soon. He's not bad now, though. Pat smiles at him and Dean fights returning it, scowls back. _Get to work._ Pat rolls his eyes and walks off.

Dean walks behind him, eyes on the thick braid falling down Pat's back. He wastes long moments thinking about braids and holding on and yanking…he likes a chick with braided hair, and it's just…it's not Pat's hair he's thinking about, that braid just reminds him of other times—Dean stumbles a bit over a root growing close to the surface. Patrick turns and raises an eyebrow.

"Really, dude? You're going to stumble around in the woods and make noise like dinner?"

"Shut up." Sounded just like Sam right there—bitch bitch bitch. Dean notices Pat is actually really good at this—he moves through branches and scrub like he's made of fog. Silent. Weird for a guy that big, to be able to move so softly…where did he learn to do that, Dean wonders….

They're working the area that they first saw the thing, walking it in a loose kind of grid. After a while, it's too quiet, and Dean starts muttering, "Why didn't he stick with us? What makes him think it just won’t eat us and then go after him? Man, I feel like it's freakin' Thanksgiving and I gotta sit at the kiddies table."

Pat screws up his face and shoots Dean a sour look. "Fuck you, simple-ass bastard."

"Fuck you back. I'm just sayin'. Feel like bait…I mean if we need to be, fine…besides, what makes him think Wolfie's gonna go after him instead of us, hunh? It's stupid—and dangerous…"

"Blood." Pat says, like he's adding it to his grocery list.

"What?"

"He put blood on himself. Didn't you smell it?"

"Fucking hell!" Dean's so mad he's vibrating—pissed at Dad for being stupid, pissed at Pat for being so calm about it. "He's going to kill himself!"

"No, he's not," Pat says. He fingers something in his pocket, pulls it out and brushes it against his mouth. A rosary, an old one, made of glass beads and silver, looks like. He flicks a look at Dean and slides it back into the pocket he took it from. Hesitates, with a kind of guilty look, that makes Dean want to check what else he's got in that pocket.

"What, you're Catholic?"

Pat shrugs. "More or less. Come on—you start over here and I'll go that way."

Dean pushes past Pat, scanning the trees and feeling like a damn idiot, walking with his head to the sky. _Skin, loose, empty…gross, so fucking gross._ Anything that can slide out of one skin like that and into another is the definition of unnatural. And this fucker binding itself to something as evil as the thing that killed his mom—something like that needed to be dead. In his head he can hear Sammy arguing with him about that and he smiles.

He takes another stroll along his end of the grid. Through the leaves he can see Pat work his side. Pat's looking up into the trees, into the brush, along the ground, so serious, Dean thinks. It reminds him of Pat long ago. He fingers the carefully wrapped bit of wolf's bane both of them are carrying and moves deeper into the trees. Little drops rain down on him. _well, that's just great._ That's just what he needs to make this a perfect night. Looking for the skin of something he hopes isn't going to kill him and doing it in the rain, yay. He can feel drops spatter his hair and wipes his hand across his face and stares at his palm."What the fucking fuck…?"

Pat whips his head Dean's way and yelps, points over his head and of course Dean lifts his head—and gets a thick drop of bloody mucous right between the eyes.

There's s deflated person over his head, draped around a tree branch.

"You got it, Dean!" Pat whisper-shouts, as excited as if Dean'd just found a good prize in his Cracker-Jacks, instead of a nasty stinking piece of supernatural shit. "Pull it down and rub that stuff on it."

He jumps and catches a deflated foot in his hand, fights to control the gag forcing itself out of his throat. Not gonna throw up in front of Pat, hell no. He yanks hard, and jerks back, surprised--the skin flops to the ground. It hits with an unpleasant wet sound. Rolls when it hits and the thing ends up on its back—Dean takes another step back and grimaces. "Fuck me…"

It's female, the skin. Breasts and bright red pubic hair, looking pasted on the empty, rubbery looking hide. The face is concave, smeared with mucus and blood and horribly, stuck in the face are flat, glassy blue eyes--why the fuck are there eyes in the thing--? "Geez, Pat, come look at this, it's…creepy. How the fuck does it get inside of this thing again? Magic—that's why we don't fuck with it. It's nasty." Dean shudders, and fishes 'that stuff' out of his pocket.

There's a long weeping slit running from the red hair in its crotch to right under its throat. "Fucking looks like zombie Gumby time, man—" He shakes himself and crouches, and rubs the bits of wolf's bane over the skin. ' _You only need to touch it',_ he remembers that guy Alex saying but he rubs it all over anyway, and for good measure tosses the bits inside the skin, and wipes his hand on his thigh. "Got it, dude—"

The dark under the trees behind Pat shatters.

Pat doesn't even waste time looking behind himself, at the first crack of twigs and rustle of leaves, he jerks forward, running for Dean and he would have made it but that braid—the warg grabs that long black braid and yanks—

_Pain rips over his skull and at first he thinks he's being scalped, that the thing wants to tear his hair from his head. He feels the hand—paw—fist more of the braid. He's pressed up against a huge furred chest, heat envelopes him, the smell—dead things and wet dog—fills his nose, his mouth. It yanks again and his head is on its shoulder, his neck arched and Patrick waits for the clash of teeth meeting in his throat._

_It speaks. He hears it, in his ears and in his head. "Tha' pretty boy ya love is comin' for yer and killin' everythin' ya have, jus' 'cause he can, for fun," it slurs through a mouth not made for speech. It laughs. "Wadin' in their blood and keepin' yer alive to watch. Know why? Make ya hurt, like him. Run, hunter, future's comin'…"_

_Hot saliva runs over his cheek and Patrick can't stop himself from screaming. He rips the machete out of its scabbard and brings it down behind his back and screams again. A white-hot line of pain erupts on his shoulder but the grip is gone and he runs like crazy--_

It looks to Dean like the thing is tasting Pat, and at first he's frozen in the bitch's grip--Dean figures poor Pat's paralyzed with fear, and shit, he can't fault him for that. And then, Pat's screaming like the thing is eating him, but he's moving too--jerking in its grip, trying hard to get free. Dean dances from one side to the other but he can't get a shot off without hitting Pat. Pat whirls the machete out of its scabbard, it's flashing in his hand, and chops at the warg. He lets out another scream, lunges forward and the warg lets him go—Dean swears the bitch is laughing. It's not going after Pat. In fact it looks like it's about to leave—until it sees Dean with its skin.

"Noaar—" the sound rises and cracks, it turns into a howl that lifts all the hair on Dean's body, and then, the thing leaps for him, those wide shoulders spread like wings, flying right over Pat.

Dean's on the edge of frantic, he's upending the gas container over the skin, fumbling the Zippo out of his pocket and he can hear the thing's harsh breath, hear it growl, "no, yer don'"

It slams into him, knocking the wind out of him. Wiry hair scratches over his face, claws push through his jacket and shred it. He starts praying for…something. Swings at it and yells, "You *bitch*! You know how hard it is to get a field jacket like this anymore?"

"Get off him, you fucker!" Pat, swinging his machete, slices right into the warg. Bitter hot blood spatters Dean's face, and the thing swings on Pat. Dean hears the claws rip into Pat, feels more blood splash him…the warg knocks Pat across the path, and goes after him. Pain's turned off any humanity lurking in it, now it was just a supernatural creature wanting to get back at what had hurt it. Dean's flicking and flicking the lighter's thumbwheel, cursing, screaming at the lighter, the warg—  
Two things happen. A shotgun blast explodes the night, so close it feels like it's going off in his ear, and the Zippo flares. Finally. He drops it on the skin. The air's split with a scream that Dean wishes he could unhear….

When he gets his eyes open again—no idea when he'd closed them--the warg's clawing at its face, ripping hair and skin away, screaming and screaming. His dad's staring at the two of them, mouth open and his gun still pointed at where the warg had been standing. Dean can't remember the last time he's seen his dad so completely stunned. Some other time, it'd even be funny.

Pat's got that Sammy BitchFace on, beat up but determined. He flings something at the warg, looks like whatever it is goes right into its bloody red maw. The warg drops like a stone—slams into the ground. It arches, huge clawed feet drum at the ground and Dean watches as it rips its own throat open. "Whoa…wolf's bane…ni-iice."

That's it. It's over. There's a dead beast on the forest floor in front of Pat, and the skin is twisting and burning behind Dean…he turns and the skin flops and Dean sees the face, the long hair catching and crisping…the skin curls in on itself and collapses into ashes. The breeze catches up the ashes and fling them into the air.

Dean looks to his dad. "So…what happened?"

His dad takes moment before he answers. "Looks like you guys killed it," he says.

There's a long, hot minute as the air between them shimmers, lots of things going unsaid, but the look grows…Dad blinks. "Good job."

"Patrick did most of the work—Pat?"

Pat's sitting on the ground, a big grin splitting his face. Blood's slopped over his neck and cheek. His arm is in his lap, racked by spasms. "Can't stop it," he says, the grin shaking, and Dean understands it's made of pain.

Between Dean and his dad, they manage to stuff Pat in the car, and Dad tells him he's going to drop them off at the motel and go back, look for the warg's clothing, whatever else of her he can find out there, and Dean just nods and nods. He's bone tired, knows Dad has to be too, but he's willing to go to the motel while Dad searches…feels a quick stab of guilt about letting him go it alone, but lets it go.

Pat's leaning against him, shivering and that's when he realizes—the blood all over Pat's neck and back isn't just the warg's…chopped off, uneven strands of his hair are everywhere.

When he gets Pat into the room, and pulls his jacket off, he finds a long shallow cut angling down one shoulder, the cut he made getting free of the warg. There are puncture wounds on the other shoulder and bruises all over him. He's biting his lip and shaking. He rolls his eyes to Dean and says, "Hurts. A lot."  
"Yeah, I know…let's get your stuff off."

"It…she talked to me." Pat's shaking so hard, Dean thinks maybe he's hallucinating a bit.

"Yeah? What'd she say?"

"She…she said…I'm not sure what she said, what it meant." Pat stares into Dean's eyes then looks away. "Don’t know."

Looking into Pat's eyes, it's obvious that whatever the hell he thinks the thing had said, Pat was lying about not getting it. So what the hell *did* the thing say? Whatever it'd said must have been--"What about it, Pat? What do you think she said?" Dean nudges him until Pat sighs.

"She said, the future's coming. Obvious, right? No idea what that meant."  
"Future's coming?" Dean pours saline solution into the gash on Pat's back. "Thanks, Miss Cleo…." Pat jumps and curses, grabs handfuls of the sheet and grunts when Dean presses a gauze pad down on the wound.

"It's not bad." He's looking at Pat's back, wide, thick with muscle, and so different than…the last time he'd seen Pat, he was thin, boyish and now, here he was, a grown man. The jagged ends of his hair are tumbled around his shoulders, all long and short, looking torn. Dean touches the hair, pulls his fingers through it and says, "I'm sorry."

"What, are you kidding? Every time I survive, it's a lesson learned. Long hair—fucking dangerous. On the job training, that's me." He laughs, weak, thin, and Dean strokes the back of his neck.

"I think you need a coupla stitches, okay? It's really not too bad," he repeats. Considering what could have gone wrong, he thinks.

"Okay," Pat says, and bends his neck, and it's so…trusting, it puts a knot in Dean's throat. He makes sure the wound is clean, cups the back of Pat's head. "Ready all right?"

Pat nods, and Dean gets to work. He tries to keep the stitches neat, and even as possible, so Pat doesn't end up looking like a quilt…but he will anyway. Nothing to be done about it.

By the time Dean's done, Pat looks pale and wrung out. Dean helps him out of the rest of his clothes, lays him out in the bed. When he wants to move away, Pat grabs his hand. "Please sit with me, just 'til I fall asleep…."

"Sure, Pat." He sits back down and Pat holds his hand tight. After a moment, he leans into Dean, head on his thigh. Before Dean can shift, Pat's out. Sound asleep. Dean leans his head back against the headboard. Closes his eyes and runs his fingers through Pat's hair, over and over, threading them though the chopped up ends.  


11

  
Dean wakes up with a groan. His head's crushed against the immovable fake headboard. His neck's aching, his back's aching and his head's pounding with headache and it's not even fucking seven yet….

He blinks; his eyeballs feel sticky, gritty. He stares at the bed across from him and after a bit, he realizes the bag and stuff scattered across it is his stuff, and realizes too the bed he's in, is Pat's. He ignores the quick clench in his gut and looks down—still dressed. That realization comes with a bizarre mixture of relief and disappointment. Not disappointment…just….

That weird clench comes right back when the fact he's alone in Pat's bed sinks in and he hates that the first thing he thinks is Pat's gone off and he's alone and he hates that it hurts.

There's noise in the bathroom, the door's open. Dean lets out a long breath, licks the place where his teeth pinched his lip. Okay. Clearly, an invitation.

He peers around the door. Feels a quick, hot flash at the sight of Pat's long brown back, the swell of his ass swathed in a threadbare terry towel…he's very fit, Pat is. Dean looks critically at the stitches holding the slice and the puncture wounds shut. They look good—clean. He's painted with bruises, and it brings back unpleasant memories….

Pat's looking at himself in the mirror; rather, he's frowning at his hair. He grins ruefully at Dean when he realizes he's been caught. "I never thought I was particularly vain but…" he shakes his head. "My, uh--my hair's gone. Weird." He tries to say it lightly, but there's a definite catch in his voice. Dean catches the undercurrent of sadness, and looks away.

"Yeah, well, you're alive. Now get out, I gotta piss."

He comes out of the bathroom, and he means to tell the poor guy he'll cut his hair—hell, he used to cut Sam's hair all the time and Sam never complained—much. "Hey, Pat…"

Pat's flat on his stomach in the bed, cheek pillowed on his crossed arms and a thoughtful look on his face. "I've been thinking…I guess I am kind of glad that I met up with you again, you know? You and your dad…I always thought of you guys as the way to be. Decent. Kind."

Dean huffs, uncomfortable with being described that way, especially since when he thinks back on that summer, decent and kind are hardly the words he'd use to describe how he was to Pat. Dad. He'd been the one…Sam and him…not so much. "I don’t know about all that."

"Not everyone thinks like that. You guys…and Sam. You know you're heroes to me, right? You treated me pretty decent, even if…well, Sam always thought of me as breakable, I guess. And you--I know you liked me but you kind of looked down on me, too. Or maybe, I was you guys' summer pet that year, hunh?" It's like Pat's talking about the weather, he's so fucking calm, and Dean kind of admires his control—or maybe it's just creepy how calm Pat is. "I was broken when I went home with you. I went because I'd given up. Couldn't take it anymore."

Dean drops down on the bed, his hip against Pat's. Just sits, and hopes the touch telegraphs what he wanted to say—that Pat is no way weak, that he's one tough, smart motherfucker and Dean would have his back anytime he wanted. 'Course, that's not enough for Pat. What Pat does is scoot closer, and grab Dean's hand like a middle school girl….

 _Shit._ Dean's palm goes sweaty, instantly. He fucking *hates* this touchy-feely shit but…okay. All right. It's Pat, and Pat's different. He needs it--touch, reassurance--not like him and Sammy. Pat tightens his grip on Dean's hand. Sighs.

Oooh, man…that's so not a good sign, Dean thinks, and takes a breath himself. He bets Pat's about to unload and figures what's coming is going to be rough… _Sharing and caring. Channel Sam and let it ride._

"So…my mom's husband. I let that dick kick my ass. Didn’t fight back because if I did, he'd just go after my mom. He was…I never thought of him as my dad. He wasn't. What he was, was a fucking bastard and I hated him. But I didn’t fight him. He was smart--always stopped short of putting me in the hospital, that fuck." Pat stopped and licked dry lips. He peered up at Dean and grinned. "Taught me excellent reflexes, though. I was never really scared of him. I *wasn't*. I just let him beat on me instead of my mom. I loved my mom. You know."

Dean nods. He picks up that Pat speaks about loving his mom in the past tense.

"I kept my mouth shut, and if stuff…if it got too bad, I slept in the woods. Or at Mike's, you remember him?"

Dean snorts—'course he did. Crazy Mike. Pat went on. "Yeah, whenever Mike's creepy Uncle Touchalot was out, I'd stay there. I shoulda gone and salted and burned *that* asshole…"

Dean growls under his breath…why didn't these guys ever *say* anything? Pat rolls to his back, moving gingerly until his shoulders are supported by one of the bed pillows. "So, that's how it worked for me since, I guess, thirteen? Last couple of times he went to beat me, he didn't stop until I hardly knew who I was. Pretty sure he was beginning to lose it, but I had nowhere to go. Not until you guys showed up." He covers his eyes with arm. "You know my mom was *pissed* at me for chasing him away? Can you believe that?" Pat laughed softly.

Dean remembers standing on her doorstep, asking for Pat, and her complete indifference. "Bitch." He should have let Sammy beat the hell out of that bitch like he'd wanted to. The sudden sharp stab under his ribs shocked Dean into hissing.

"Hey, I'm good now, okay? I like what I'm doing," Pat says. Hesitates, and snorts--loud. "Well, you know what I mean."

Oh yeah, Dean gets it. Like it? No—but this was—this job was everything. It made you feel alive, made you feel like you were doing something worth-while. Dean nods. Yeah. Save someone, kill some evil fucking thing and keep moving and that way, no one ever knows you aren't worth anything. Dean drops his head. Sometimes, there was no moving fast enough…ever since Sam left, Dean could feel it, the knowledge that he just. Wasn't good enough. Wasn't as good as Dad. Wasn't worth much more than what Dad wanted him for--taking point and drawing fire, whatever--

He's digging his thumbs into his eyes, hard, until Pat grabs at him and says, "Hey—stop that--" Big hands wrap around his wrists, hot, dry, the calluses on the edge of his palm dragging against Dean's skin. He shudders, the feeling suddenly weirdly intense.

"Dean…" Pat pulls him closer. "Dean, you don’t get it, do you? Believe me, Sammy wouldn't love you if you were less than what you are—a hero."

"Fuck that shit. Sam left. Fuck him." Dean does his best to pull loose, but can't—he's surprised, but he shouldn't be, he knows. Pat's a strong motherfucker.

"Yeah, well, that didn't have as much to do with you, as with him. I said he loves you, I didn't say he wasn't screwed up," Pat says with a wry smile.

It's like Pat's doused him with gasoline and tossed a lit match on him. He's so fucking furious it makes him nauseous. "Him? Us, you mean. We're so fucked. What we did, that shit was *wrong*," he spits out. Fuck, fuck—he hasn't thought about it, not really, in years and Pat, the bastard…he has to drag it up into the light and poke at the fucker.

"Hey!" Pat yanks at Dean until he falls across him. Dean freezes against Pat's chest, feels Pat stop breathing for a long second before his eyes widen and he yelps, "Ah—that *hurts*!"

"Idiot! Rip open all your stitches why don’t you? End up looking like Frankenstein," Dean growls and manhandles Pat to his side, checks to make sure the stitches are holding. Pat laughs, kind of breathy with pain, but truly amused.

"If I was worried about that, I'd be selling grills, dude. So…" he twists, cups Dean's face. "Tell me, Dean. When are you going to walk out on me?"

Dean rips away from those too warm hands—it burns when Pat's fingernails accidentally scrape down his cheeks. "Man, fuck you, Pat—fuck you." Does Pat think he's stupid, that he can't hear like 'Sam walked out on you'? "I don’t do that—that's your thing, you and Sam, I stayed with Dad. Like we were supposed to. Sam's the one who ran away."

"Sam didn't run away, dude. He went to Stanford--you know, college? Like most folks expect to do? You left him--a long time before he took off. What do you think hurt more, Dean? Watching Sam walk away, or Sam learning how to live without you before he was even gone?"

"You don’t know what you're talking about—you weren't even there!" Dean's shouting, trying to shout down the punch in the gut Pat delivered without blinking an eye. Cold slice to the heart like a fucking surgeon.

Pat's expression says it all—what a fucking ass Dean's being, that he's completely stupid if he can't get that Pat hurts too, and for reasons that are pretty much the same.

"You know what, forget it. You'll never get it." Dean fishes out a hard pack from his pocket, taps out a cigarette and fiddles around lighting it. He wastes a few seconds looking for the Zippo, forgetting for a moment he'd sacrificed it to burning the warg's skin. He finds a half empty box of camping matches—good to light under any condition. And that reminds him—he breathes out a cloud of smoke and fixes Pat with a glare. "What happened in the woods, Pat? What did that wolf-bitch really say to you?"

"Told you already, Dean--nothing." Pat shook his head hard, and turned Dean's face so he was gazing right into his eyes. "There was nothing, nothing that made sense. I swear on my mother's life."

Dean can't find anything off in Pat's wide, bright eyes, sincerity shining in them like altar candles. Pat blinks, and then his lips quirk in a shy, little smile. "I was just freaked Dean, that's all. Sometimes, I'm not as brave as I should be."

"Y'are too," Dean mutters, but he feels the weird, dim sense of fear that had been crowding up against the back of his brain all evening work loose…nothing concrete, just...a sense of unease, and _Sammy,_ that had been gnawing at him all night. He tilts his head back and inhales deep, when he exhales he feels like he's pushing out some kind of poison. He crushes out the butt like he's killing all the worry left. "Well, good. Okay then."

"I'd never tell you less than the truth, Dean. I owe you that, right?"

Dean nods slowly. Maybe Pat did—though Dean really can't see why he'd think that. Of course, many years later, when he remembers this day and what happened long after, he realizes a little too late that one of the first things a thirteen year old would have had to do in order to protect himself and his mother was learn to lie with deep sincerity….

But this day, he sort of lets Pat pull him to his mouth and kiss him. Pat's mouth is hot, very soft. Dean automatically tries to pull away, and again, Pat pulls him back….

"It's just a kiss, idiot. It's not going to kill you."

"It might," he mumbles against Pat's mouth. This close up Pat's a blur…he could be anybody. A girl…Pat groans a little and pushes up against Dean. Well, no, no fucking way was he a girl. No one's imagination is that good—it's like colliding with a brick wall. Dean blushes. Feels good, actually….

"Hey, touch me—it's okay—"

Dean's hands come slowly to Pat's hips. So different now. Broader. They'd been so thin back then—so thin, all skin and hair and knobby bones. He slides his hands up until they come to rest in the jagged ends of Pat's hair, grips what he can at the base of his skull and Pat moans, his legs spread a bit and Dean settles in between them. He can feel heat and hardness and blushes harder when he feels…different. Sure, he's done this before. Sort of, anyway. Stuff like this, sometimes, it just--happens. Any hand in a foxhole, right? But this is…it's just different. It's hot, and…Dean closes his eyes…feels a breeze blow over his wet skin, smells pine, and hot sand, and the dry hay smell of sun-burned grass…smells shampoo and water too full of iron to be drinkable. Summer. Lodi.

Dean's panting, as much from the assault of memory as from what Pat's making him feel, and then, Pat twists and thrusts up and anything else Dean's thinking about flies to bits. He loses himself to the smooth slide of Pats' tongue over his, the wet cling of his mouth. He's moaning, so hard, loud, and a second grips him when he thinks he should be quiet—he almost laughs. No one to hear him, no one to care.

"Dean, Dean can we—" Pat's pulling at his own clothes and Dean gets it, shrugs and pulls and yanks his own clothes away.

The touch of bare skin against bare skin almost makes him cry. It's been a long, long, time. Not for fucking—just for touch, touching someone who knows him and wants…him, not just his dick. It's a good feeling. So good he's slicking Pat up, drooling precome all over him, his dick is jumping, spitting, sliding over Pat's and getting caught in the hair there and that feels, yeah. "Good."

Pat grabs his head, and arches against him, driving their dicks together with a purpose now, and he laughs right into Dean's neck. "Good? Wow, thanks, faint praise."

Dean snorts, bites the shell of Pat's ear. "So? Not like you're working hard."

"Oh, really?" Pat says, like he's been challenged. Drops lower and sucks Dean's dick right into his throat—at least that's what it feels like, when Dean comes back to earth. He's got practically his whole fist shoved in his mouth, his eyes are leaking from being screwed shut so tight and he's humping Pat's face and it's possible he might choke him to death.

Pat shoves at his hips to hold him back—"needa breath," he gasps, and then sucks Dean right back in. Dean laughs and groans and moans all at once. He moans even louder when Pat lets him go, with a wet smack. He's staring hard into Dean's eyes. Thinking hard enough to make Dean wince and then he wipes his chin, and says, "I want you to fuck me."

Dean swears stars explode in his gut. "Yeah? I mean—yeah."

Pat makes lube and a condom appear out of nowhere…fucking Boy Scout, he is…and fast as shit. He's got the condom out, and rolling it on Dean before he can even blink. Grins at Dean like he's making a quarter walk his knuckles. Beginning to think maybe the guy is a little magical. Pat strokes Dean's stomach, drags his nails over his skin until he's ready to give Pat any fucking thing he wants. Pat just looks up at him and asks, "You good?"

Dean nods and Pat slides out from under him, there's more amazing skin flowing against skin and Dean might have made some noise at that—he'd deny it if asked. Pat pours himself onto the bed next to Dean, like a cat. Dean blinks. Pat's more than good-looking—he's sexy as hell, and Dean deals with the fact he's finding a guy…*sexy*. Like, _I really want to touch and lick and kiss and fuck yousexy._ He shivers. "So, what do you need—?"

Pat hands him the lube. "Some of this, and enthusiasm." He shoves a pillow under his hips. "Come on." and Dean adds more slick to the condom, shudders at the touch of his own hand, the dark, hot look Pat gives him and it makes him…uncertain? Kind of scared…something.

"Don’t be afraid," Pat says, his hands hot on Dean's biceps, smoothing, soothing. "It's no big deal…" and Dean feels hurt, a little anger, and that makes the fear vanish like smoke, makes him less than cautious. He pulls Pat's legs toward him and pushes in with a growl. Pat gasps, and they both freeze--

Memory floods back…Pat. Sam. Summer, hot, wet, hurt…memory makes him move….

"Fuck. Like that," Pat groans, and throws his head back. "Do it."

It's hot, tight and better than memory, and watching Pat's face is turning him on more than he imagined he'd be. He's pushing in and in, and Pat— _oh shit—_ Pat flushes a tide of red, his neck, his chest, beautiful, lips, and cheeks, so red…Dean leans in and kisses him, awkward and sloppy, and so good. "Pat, Pat oh god, Pat…"

Pat's long arms wrap around his neck and yank Dean down to him. "Call me Patrick—"

He does, and moves, in, out, steady thrust and Pat breathes hard, moaning, whispering encouragement….

They move together and it's amazing, and gets better and better. Heat grows, pressure, an urge that makes Dean push with everything, wanting to get in deeper, faster, his muscles jump and quiver, his dick jerks, jerks. Mouth is moving and whatever he's saying, Pat likes it, judging by the way his head is whipping back and forth. For a second, Dean misses all that long, black hair. "Patrick, you feel so good, Patrick, love fucking you, I remember, I remember—"

 _Shit, damn it._ Sex makes you stupid, Dean thinks, but it must have been the right thing to say--Pat clamps down on him, shouts, "oh fuck", and he's coming, dick jerking in between them and spurting hot little jets that drip and smear on their bellies, their chests. Dean strokes in a last time, his back arches and he has a moment to feel a quick spasm of embarrassment. He's never been this loud with any girl—he doesn't think he's come this hard in…ever. "Patrick!"

Drowning in fire, that's what it feels like. No--no, it's like all his blood's alive and fizzing, or, no--like his muscles are knotting and unknotting and trying their best to come too—oh, okay, yeah, this—it's like—it's like every *part* of him is coming. "oh god, shit, Pat…coming."

Pat groans, "Yeah, I can feel you, feel you…" Pat's knees are digging in his ribs, ankles locked over his spine and it feels pretty good. Like being locked up in a warm cage. Pat sighs and sounds so content it makes Dean smile too. A wash of heat fills his chest, his heart. He's laid out over Pat, smiling, drifting into the dark behind his eyelids. He feels so good he hates to open them. He just wants to sleep, sleep, and his arms are wrapped around Pat because Pat's in the way of the pillows, that's all….

"Dude…really, wow…."

Dean pries his eyes open and squints. Pat's a mess—he looks like he's melted, like he's a big old popsicle in the sun. He's wearing a goofy grin just makes him all that more sexy and Dean has to kiss him. He hasn't kissed anyone this much since…a really long time. He kisses Pat and unexpectedly his eyes fill. It's kind of awful, and it makes him feel guilty for a hundred reasons, but right at this moment, he misses Sammy--the smell, the touch, his voice--so very, very, much.

He pushes the feeling away violently, locks it back up in his head. It's sick to even think about his brother right now. Sick. Pat's looking at him, like he knows what he's thinking. When he catches Dean looking back, he rolls his head to the side and closes his eyes. "Gotta move, dude. I'm a mess."

Dean pulls out a lot more carefully than he went in and Pat makes a tiny noise, and then snickers—and somehow, they're laughing. Why, Dean has no idea. Probably Pat doesn’t know either, but it's okay. A part of him thinks laughing with him is almost as good as fucking him.

Almost.

Dean gets rid of the condom, rubs his belly with a tee-shirt that turns out to be Pat's. Oh well. Pat smiles, and starts to get up and Dean pushes him back down, plants a hand in the center of his chest. "Hold up." Drops the messy tee-shirt on Pat, and grins when he gets a disgusted grimace from him. "Let's just…ah, fuck, let's just relax for a little bit, okay?"

Pat's face brightens, fucking lucky he's not a spy, or anything….kid's an open book. He stretches out next to him and drops one of his humongous giant thighs over Dean's. "Sounds like a plan, yeah…." Beaming like Dean just gave him a fucking present or something. Shit.

Fucking Patrick. He can't help but like him.  


12

  
The bar's the kind of place that would've had dim, smoky air, heavy dark furniture and a hand rubbed finish on a long oak bar, but plastic and vinyl's just so much easier to clean. It would've had sawdust and peanut shells on the floor, really, it would—but that would've been just--unsanitary.

It's the kind of place that wants to be your corner bar, but it's in the middle of a mall parking lot and it's…just…not.

Dean walks in and stops dead. There's some god awful crap pumping out of hidden speakers somewhere, and this joint had better hope he can't find the god damn things. He wrinkles his nose at the bright red chairs and jet black tables, growls when Pat runs into the back of him.

"Damn it, Winchester—move, will ya? Or at least beep or something when you stop—oh hey, there's your dad."

Dean grabs Pat's wrist. "Wave and I'll cut it off," and ignores Pat's offended snort. There he is—Dad's in the back, standing by a booth, and doing that thing where he doesn’t move his face but he's laughing like hell inside.

"Yeah, laugh it up old man," Dean mutters to himself, "next time it's my pick, we're going with Chucky Cheese's…."

Pat, who has the ears of a fucking bat, snickers. "I don’t think that's a good idea. Two guys who look like serial killers hanging out in a place that caters to kiddies? Good luck with that."

Dean's shocked and a little offended—"serial killers?"

Pat rolls his eyes. "Yeah, get twisted about that, 'cause two grown men hanging out with little kiddies, just fine--ya perv. Hurry up, I'm thirsty."

"Bitch." Dean slides into the booth, the damn thing's so clean and slick, he almost hits the wall and Dad smirks a little before handing them menus.

"They got burgers," he says, not looking at Dean, but that doesn't matter, Dean knows his dad is watching him.

Dean goggles at the menu. "Goat cheese on a burger? The fuck…avocado?"

Pat murmurs, "It's good, really…"

Yeah. Maybe Pat's gone all California, but Dean's not having it. Cheese burgers are cow and cheese and sometimes when he's feeling adventurous, bacon. Which is just *more meat*, as it should be. "Wait—veggie burgers? What the fuck kind of place is this?" Dad shifts in his seat, and the menu trembles a bit in his hand—he's fucking *laughing* at him. Dean's torn between outrage and…feeling good. Dad doesn't laugh all that much, and Dean loves it when he does, even if it's at his expense. Hell, he'd work his way through a ton of tofu burgers or whatever shit they have here if it makes Dad forget the job for a few minutes….

Pat's over there, biting his lip, huffing through his nose…and *him*, Dean just wants to slap the hell out of, but seeing as how just a short while ago, he was yelling Dean's name like he owned heaven--

Pat looks at him, and blushes, grins down in the menu, the son-of-a-bitch.

Fuck. Dad's looking at him. Now looking at Pat. *Double* fuck, he's got that thinking look…Dean smiles at his dad. 'Kay. He'll play along. "So, what's good here? No wait—what's *edible* here?"

Dad tilts his head and searches Dean's face, the so-and-so's eyes are shining—just full of ha-ha's. "Fuck if I know. I've never eaten at a place like this before." He turns his attention to Pat.

"So, I called your boy. Gave him what I found about the warg…smart boy, that one." He glances at Dean, eyes sliding off him and going back to the menu. Dean's not fooled. Dad always looks the most uninterested when he's the most involved. "He says 'hey'. Wants you to call soon as you get the chance." And Pat, Pat slides his eyes over to Dean for a second and Dean feels his stomach cramp. _Damn it._

He feels the heat of Pat's gaze for long seconds—keeps his eyes locked on the stupid menu like the map to the holy grail's printed on it. There's this heavy exhale, just full of words that Dean hopes never come out into the light, and Pat says, "Yeah…let me do that right now." He slides out of the booth and walks out. Soon as the door closes on his ass, Dean sighs too. And sure enough Dad's staring at him like he's a bug.

"What are you doing?"

"What? Doing what?"

"What're you doing with Pat? And don’t pretend like you don’t know what I'm talking about—I don't give a shit about whose bed you leave your boots under. But you know—"

"Dad. I don’t know what you're talking about. I didn't—"

"It's not fair. You can't screw up Pat's life on a whim."

"It's not!" Dean says hotly, forgetting that he's supposed to be acting like he's clueless. "I'm not doing it on purpose--whatever." And Dean feels like shit, because he's completely doing it on purpose.

"Look…whatever's eating you, fucking up Pat's stuff is not the way to go. Leave it be, y'hear? Way I see it, Pat's got the making of a great hunter. Work with him—just work with him—or let it go. And I suggest you confront whatever's screwing up your head."

 _Fuck—since when had Dad turned into Oprah--_ "Yes sir," Dean mutters, and Dad knows how much the whole thing is bothering him because he just grunts and turns his attention back to the menu—he's going to let Dean stew in it on his own for a while. A minute or two later, Pat slides back in the seat…and keeps a few inches between them. Dean leaves it.

Confront his problems…Dean thinks about that. _Yeah Dad, see, my problem is I'd like to fuck your other son_.. And saying it so baldly, even silently in the confines of his own fucked up head makes him swim with horrified dizziness for a second. His heart slams in his chest, like Dad's got ESP, like he's going to read the sickness festering inside him.

Damn. Sam made the right move. Got out of Dodge. Got out of the whole sick mess. No matter what Pat said, Sam left first, Sam had the guts to cut Dean off when he just couldn't…Sammy always was the smart one.  


~~~~~~

  
They make plans to meet up in a month outside of Santa Fe, and then they're packing and loading the cars, and getting ready to separate.

Dad's big black truck's more than halfway down the road, when Dean looks away from the trail of dust it's kicking up. Glances over, and Pat's watching him. Pat looks him over, leans on the Gremlin's roof and says, "Instead of hanging around campus another couple of days, come with me. I'll introduce you to the Post House crew…" His eyes are clear and empty of anything except friendship and Dean finds he doesn't want to lose that. Even if he'd just implied that Dean was kind of pathetic. The catch though, is meeting Pat's friends, and that Alex guy…Dean wants to meet those guys like he wants to shoot himself in the foot, but he figures he deserves the penance, and he owes Pat to do it.

"Okay," he hears himself saying and wishes…he was just a little more selfish, 'cause if he was, he'd shove Pat back into the room and make him forget anything else in the world. He doesn't 'cause there's no way it would work. It never was going to work, not from the first time they met. There's nothing Pat could do to make him forget Sam and after a while, Pat would resent sharing headspace with a ghost. Sooner or later, it would become obvious that somewhere along the line what Dean should have done was put a bullet in both their heads so yeah…they were going to this Post House place, and after that, back to whatever their separate futures held for them….  


~~~~~~

  
The joint looks out of place—Dean can imagine it being somewhere deep in the swamps down south, festooned with Spanish moss and gators grunting out in the back. Hard to believe that the road it's on parallels a major highway and a Walmart is within throwing distance, though the trees lining the property masks that. He wonders what the locals think of the string of odd visitors, speaking with so many different accents and quite a few of them crazy looking as hell.

The bar is a long wooden building, its paint faded from bright to a dusty green. A narrow porch runs its length, and a couple of kitchen chairs are parked at the far end. There's a big plate glass window besides the double doors and a few beer signs, metal and neon, hang in the window. The place is probably dark inside all the time. The sign over the doors is chipped, faded with the years, but painstakingly neat copperplate lettering tells whoever cares they've found the Post House, and the Post House could care less—cool. He liked a place with attitude.

All in all, it didn't look like much…though the neon beer signs probably make it look real cheerful at night, Dean thinks.

Trees overhang a dirt and gravel parking lot out back, and it's there he parks the Impala, trying to keep it in shade. Black's a cool color, yeah, but in the summer his baby turns into a fucking toaster oven, not her fault, but damn, there's nothing like putting your flesh on sun-baked vinyl to make you scream like a little bitch.

So he's heard.

The ground crunches loud underfoot, cicadas are knocking themselves out singing about the coming end of summer. Dean looks around...just him and Pat outside. The air is still and heavy, and other than the cicadas and the occasional drone of a passing small plane, it's really…"Quiet."

"Yeah, not always. You can't hear the road real well from here but sometimes it gets loud. Evenings, things get busy—some of the braver locals come out. The beer's cheap but decent and the food's not fancy but it's real good," he says, and cuts his eyes at Dean like he's offering something to make up for—whatever. "Daytime though, it's mostly just us."

Dean shrugs. There's the sound of a door opening and a guy scuffs on the porch, black rubber slides sighing over the rough wood, and an impressive scowl darkening his features. He's a light skinned guy—young—short, stiff braids cover his head and he's sporting a close cut beard. He's shorter than both of them, stocky, and the arms he crosses over a thick chest are impressive. Dean looks him up and down. He's pretty sure he could take him; pretty sure it wouldn't be easy, not for a minute.

"Pat." He comes to the edge of the porch, leans to scratch the inch of skin showing between the top of his tube sock and the bottom edge of baggy nylon shorts. "Winchester." His arms slide down his chest until his fists come to rest on his hips. "Nice meeting you," and cold grey eyes say it's nothing of the sort.

"Alex," Pat says, with an edge of exasperation and fondness, and with just that one word, Dean feels like he's standing on the outside. His heart clutches and memory serves up "Dean"—one word full of—everything. Makes him feel guilty about Pat all over again, what they did to him that summer…Dean feels the possibilities flying about here. This place, this was Pat's home—if it wasn't now, it would be.

Dad was right. Dean lowers his eyes and takes a step back.

"Come on in, both of you." Alex jerks his chin towards the bar. "Get some lunch, we can talk shop."

Dean holds back and lets Pat take the way, keeps a good few steps between them. Pat leaps up onto the porch and pulls Alex into a quick hug. Alex gives it back, throws an arm around his neck, all 'dude' and 'hey man'—best buddies--and Dean smirks. Sure. Give Pat a couple of days to get it right. Or for Alex to buy a clue.

He slides a butt out of the pack he squirreled away in the inside pocket of his leather, tucks it behind his ear before climbing the porch stairs. Alex nods when he steps up to him. "Dean, right?" And this time, his eyes are a degree or two warmer.

"Yeah, Dean. Your partner's letting me hang around for a bit," he says and Alex smiles, and wow…Dean has to blink. Oo-kaay. He might not check guys out like that but, damn.

"We come across something very interesting—maybe you guys wanna take a look at it?" Alex is talking and moving, "It's right around South Dakota. Singer—you know Bobby, right?—sent us some stuff about it—"

Dean follows Alex inside, not really paying that much attention but lured in by the promise of food and cold beer…he smiles. This is what it's all about in the end, right? He hasn't lost anything. He's still got the job, he has Dad. He has a friend and a purpose. What the fuck--he's good with that.  


13

  
Okay, so what if the fucking car was outside the Wash'n'Dry? So what if Dean's out there and so what if he's with Patrick? In fact, good for them both. Dean fucking sneaking around the place like some kind of spying weasel…fuck him, and his sneaking fucking self. Hiding and not talking to him—not that he *wants* to talk to the sonofabitch.

Sam gets one foot in the door of the apartment and stops dead—suddenly, he's smelling pine and hot sand and old paper, the ghost of dog piss—time and place almost literally snap back around him, and he's home. Or what he's told himself is home for the last two years now. It's never felt like this before, though. Like coming back to the apartment's like a wet burlap bag settling over him. For a moment, he can't breathe. The breath, when it does come, burns like fire.

He folds his hands over his face, presses his eyes shut and when he opens them again, somehow he's in the bedroom, the drawer that belongs to him yawning open and his hands are fisted in the neat stacks of underwear and socks, tearing them apart. His bag's under the bed, it'll take him seconds to pack, and then, he can rent a car with one of the cards Dean gave him as a going away present—Sam Lorenzo, what the hell—and he'll find him, shit, Dean's about as stealthy as a fucking elephant in a china shop, or no, a bull, that's what he meant--there's no place Dean can hide. Sam knows him like he knows himself. No problem. He'll find him and make Patrick go away and it'll be like it's supposed to be. Dean needs him. He can feel it in the air—

"Samzilla--where are you, hon, I got your very favorite--*food*--"

Sam shoves the drawer shut and leans over the dresser, nausea clogging his throat. He breathes, deep and even until he can stand up straight and makes a smile appear on his face, like any normal guy would do when his boyfriend comes home to feed him and. This is the way it should be—normal, average, safe. What he's always wanted and Dean doesn't want him anyway, not like that and that's the way the world works.

They're sitting in the almost dark; the little white boxes that had held take out tinted blue by the light of the TV. They're empty, but lined up neatly on the coffee table—it's dessert time, and Sam licks the ice cream-covered spoon knowing Jess is watching him. It's a little game they play and tonight, it's important to be what Jess expects, and it works. Jess grins at him.

"Dork," he giggles and then gets serious. "Sam…hey, Sam, what if I asked you to tell me a secret?"

"You, ah…you wanna know something? About me?" Sam swallows hard, and nails that smile on again, screwing it down tight. "Of course. All you have to do is ask…" _God, don’t ask._

"Okay…is chocolate chip cookie dough your fav ice cream?"

Sam blinks…it's not quite what he'd expected, but he's not about to complain. "No…secretly, Chubby Hubby is my favorite."

Jess laughs, and goes on. "Is Winchester your real name or did you make it up to sound cool?"

 _Thank god._ Sam takes a deep, relieved breath. This is just a game—he can do this. He answers, "Nope, Winchester is my real name. And I'm just naturally cool," he smirks.

"Who is Dean?"

The question stabs through him like a knife made of ice. "I already told you, babe, he's my brother."

"Yeah, your brother the 'boxer'. But there's more, I can feel it. What is it with him? I mean, did he do something shitty to you—?"

"What? No! Look, he's no big deal—I mean, he's just my brother and that's all there is--we’re not even that close. He's just—well, he's never hurt me. He's just—you know--"

Sam racks his brain for anything he might have said about Dean that was close to the truth, but Jess just watches him flail like he's an interesting kind of bug, before looking away. "…no big deal?" he says before swirling his tongue through his ice-cream, and Sam pushes himself deeper into the couch cushions. "You act like you don't believe me."

Jess flaps his hand, brushing Sam's words away. "Your turn to ask me a secret," is all he says.

"All right," Sam tries to turn the game of truths away from the direction it's been heading. "Um, let me think--who do you think's the sexiest guy in the world?"

Jess makes a production of thinking until Sam punches him on the arm. "Ow! You, I guess," and grabs Sam by the cheeks and kisses him. "Mmm. Yep, it's you."

Sam gasps, lips chilled by Jess' ice cream flavored kiss "Hey, you're not kissing me; you're just trying to steal my ice cream!"

"I can't fool you, can I, Kansas?"

Sam shakes his head and Jess watches him finishes the rest of his ice cream.  


~~~~~~

  
Patrick has his eye on Dean. Ever since they left John Winchester in Cali, Patrick's been watching and thinking…Dean's a little different. This Dean…he's more like his old Dean. Quieter. A bit more controlled. It's like being with John's ignited something in him…Patrick misses new Dean, in a way. All that babbling was kind of fun. And he misses the potential for sex, even though maybe, possibly, hopefully, Patrick's got someone now. He hopes he has.

Fuck.

Next time he's back at the Post, he's going to nail that down—no more guessing, no more wondering. Hell, he helped kill a monster, kind of. He can tackle Alex. He's a lot less scarier than the warg was. Pretty much.

Patrick rolls his head in Dean's direction, watches Dean's hands sooth the wheel, watches how a small smile flits over his lips and sinks, and he wonders what Dean's thinking about. He leans slightly towards the open window. The breeze whips in, ruffles his hair, slides under his collar. The air smells like hot plastic and oil. Miles pass, music pounding too loud for conversation, and finally Patrick reaches over and turns it down, ignoring Dean's startled huff of protest. "Hey." Patrick says and leans back against the pleated vinyl seat back. "Superman or Batman?"  
"Say what? Is this about who you'd fuck again?" Dean asks, his eyes narrow in annoyed confusion and he grips the wheel tighter.

"No, I mean if you had your choice of them, who would you wanna be, Superman or Batman?"

Dean shakes his head. "Neither, I'm awesome enough. Music, bitch. Now."

Patrick ignores him and says, "I think you're Batman. You just jump in and get the job done, like Batman. No worries, no thinking—it's all just black and white, no grays."

"So—what, Superman's a big girl? Though that would make sense," he pretends to muse, "what with you being a princess, too."  
Patrick frowns, eyes on the road ahead. "Shut up. I can't help it if I think about things. Sometimes, the way we do things…it makes me wonder if what makes a monster a monster is being on the losing side…. "

Dean flicks an incredulous look at him. "What the fuck dude—that's stupid. A monster's a monster because it kills people. Warg? Flesh-eating bitch that tried to take your head off? Where's the not being a monster there, dude? Besides, I'm Batman because Batman is totally cool—like me."

He winks and turns his attention back to the road and Patrick closes his eyes. That's Dean all over—confident, sure, and driven. Patrick sighs a little, and wonders about the future.

~~~~~~

  
Dean plants both hands firmly on the wheel, and listens to the throaty growl of the engine under the beat of Paranoid. Taps his ring against the wheel and thinks about what an awesome Batman he'd be. What a puss Pat can be some times. Wonders when his dad's going to contact him again. Thinks about a million things and nothing at all, until it's all white noise.

fin

8-26-2009


End file.
